Fog coils low over the lake, thick and unmoving, as if the water itself is holding its breath. The air is damp and bitterly cold, clinging to skin and fabric alike, carrying the faint scent of rot and old stone. Each step closer to the shoreline sinks into wet earth, boots pressing into mud that feels recently disturbed. The lake’s surface is unnaturally still—no ripples, no reflection—only a dark mirror swallowed by mist. Somewhere beyond the fog, the silhouette of an abandoned castle looms, its broken towers barely visible. The silence is heavy, broken only by the soft lap of water against the shore… and the unsettling feeling that the lake is listening.