The forest was a cathedral of darkness, its canopy so dense that even the moonlight dared not trespass. Twisted, ancient trees stretched their gnarled limbs skyward, their bark blackened with age and decay. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rot, clinging to the lungs like a cloying shroud. Beneath the skeletal branches, shadows pooled unnaturally, shifting as if alive, as though the forest itself was breathing, watching, waiting.

Through this desolation, Damir moved like a wraith, his presence an affront to the natural world. His gaunt form seemed to glide rather than walk, his tattered black robes trailing behind him like an ink stain spreading across the ground. The fabric whispered against the undergrowth, the only sound to punctuate the oppressive silence. He did not disturb the forest; rather, the forest recoiled from him, each step leaving the moss brittle and lifeless, the soil beneath his feet turning ashen.

The creatures of the night fell silent in his wake. No owl dared to hoot, no fox to skitter. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, unwilling to stir the leaves lest it draw his attention. Damir’s hollow gaze swept the darkness, his milky-white eyes faintly aglow, casting a ghostly luminescence that revealed nothing yet seemed to see everything. His claw-like fingers trailed lightly along the bark of a nearby tree, leaving frostbitten marks that seeped black as if the tree itself bled in protest.

The deeper he wandered, the more the forest transformed around him. The trees grew more grotesque, their shapes twisting into unnatural contortions, their branches forming macabre arches overhead. The ground squelched beneath him, the mud cold and fetid, releasing occasional bubbles of foul-smelling gas that hissed like whispers of the damned.

Faint, almost imperceptible noises rose in the distance—low groans, the rustling of unseen things, and the brittle snapping of twigs where no animal could be seen. The shadows around him grew restless, creeping closer as if drawn by him.