The forest of Spider Tranche breathed like a living thing. Ancient trees arched overhead, their silver-veined leaves whispering secrets as an eerie violet mist curled around their roots. Threads of old magic—thin as spider silk but shimmering with runic light—hung between branches, humming quietly whenever something dared to pass. Every step Sunny took made the forest shift: twigs snapped too sharply, shadows moved just a bit too quickly, and the distant clicking of forest spiders echoed like a warning.

Sunny pulled his cloak tighter, the emblem of the Elven Retreat gleaming faintly against the gloom. The King’s command still rang in his ears: Find the mage before the others do. Protect them at all costs. And “the others”… well, the forest already felt full of them. Hunters, bounty-seekers, foul mercenaries—lurking somewhere among the fog. A cold breath of wind slid along Sunny’s neck.

He stopped. Listened.

Nothing but the drip of dew. The groan of old bark. The pulse of magic in the air. Still… he felt watched. Sunny muttered under his breath, pushing through a curtain of glowing vines that recoiled like startled serpents. …Where could this mage be… The forest didn’t answer, but something deeper in the mist stirred—soft, urgent, and distinctly human.