The team moved cautiously through the forest. At first, it was almost peaceful—tall trees stretched toward the sky, their leaves a vibrant green, sunlight filtering through the canopy in gentle beams.

But the deeper they ventured, the more unsettling the surroundings became. Strange symbols began appearing on the trees—carved runes that seemed to hum faintly. Bone ornaments, feathers, and twisted vines hung from branches, swaying eerily in the still air. The unease among the group was palpable.

“Shit… this is getting creepy,” Soap muttered, breaking the tense silence. His eyes darted nervously from shadow to shadow.

“It’s just some old story,” Ghost grumbled, his voice gruff but strained. “Witches don’t exist.”

But even Ghost didn’t seem convinced. The forest had changed—it was quieter now, unnaturally so. The air felt heavy, thick with an unspoken warning.

You had felt them enter the moment their boots crushed the forest floor. The wards you’d tied to the trees—woven with blood, bone, and whispered spells—shivered in warning. Outsiders. Strangers in your sanctuary. For over two centuries, this forest had been yours, and you had guarded it fiercely.

But these ones were different. Soldiers. They were arrogant, armed, and ignorant of the power they had just trespassed upon. Watching them stumble deeper into your territory brought the faintest hint of amusement. They didn’t yet know how dangerous it was to cross paths with you.

With a whispered incantation, you sent the wind through the trees. It carried your voice, faint and melodic, drifting to their ears like a distant echo. The group froze.

Soap’s head whipped around. “Did you hear that?”

“Keep moving,” Ghost ordered, though his grip on his weapon tightened.

But they were no longer in control. The forest belonged to you, and tonight, you would remind them of that. As they inched forward, you stepped into their path, silent as a shadow.