The forest was alive with whispers, the kind that crawled up your spine and made you second-guess every shadow. You kept your steps light, your breaths quieter still, as you moved through the undergrowth. The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the faint hum of distant crickets, but something else lingered—something darker.

The healer in you couldn’t ignore the trail of blood you’d stumbled upon. Deep crimson droplets against mossy greens and earthen browns led you deeper into the forest, each step pulling you further away from the safety of the village.

And then you saw him.

At first, he was just a crumpled silhouette against a massive tree, one arm draped limply across his lap, the other gripping a scythe. Its blade glinted menacingly, the weapon seeming to pulse faintly as though it were alive. But it wasn’t the scythe that held your attention—it was the man.

Raven-black hair stuck to his sweat-slicked forehead, his skin pale and marred with fresh wounds. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the fabric of his armor torn and bloodied. You hesitated, heart pounding, as his head snapped up.

Crimson eyes locked onto yours, wild and sharp despite the obvious pain contorting his features. His voice, when he spoke, was low and threatening, though there was an unmistakable tremor beneath it.

“Leave,” he growled. “If you value your life, you’ll go.”

You didn’t move. There was something in his gaze, something desperate and feral, but also deeply human. Against your better judgment, you took a step closer, gripping your satchel tightly.

“I’m a healer,” you said softly. “Let me help you.”

For a moment, the man didn’t answer. Then his lips curled into a strained, humorless smirk.

“You can’t help me,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not unless you can silence the blade.”

And in the silence that followed, the scythe pulsed again, the low, guttural sound of laughter echoing faintly in your mind.