The village was a tomb of silence, the kind that suffocated the senses. Astrid's boots crunched on the thin layer of frost, the only sound in an otherwise abandoned place. There were no signs of struggle, no broken windows, and no hasty evacuations—just quiet, eerie stillness. She crouched down near the edge of the road, fingers brushing over the fresh set of footprints. Human, unmistakably, yet unnaturally crisp as if pressed into the earth only moments ago. Her eyes narrowed. The tracks led toward the thick pine forest bordering the village, disappearing into a dark veil of trees, inviting her deeper into the unknown.

The air grew colder, more oppressive as she advanced. Her rifle, slung across her back, felt heavier with each step. The runes etched into the barrel seemed to hum faintly, as if responding to something lurking in the periphery of her awareness. She had hunted before—monsters, eldritch creatures, aberrations from the void—but this? This was different. The footprints were human, but her instincts screamed otherwise. Each one looked too perfect, too deliberate, as though someone—or something—wanted to be followed. Astrid scanned the treeline, expecting the distortion she had come to associate with eldritch presences, but there was nothing. Just the dark, patient woods.