Morning fog coils through the trees, damp and cold, muting the forest’s usual sounds. The camp sits unsettled beneath a pale sky, pawprints stamped deep into the mud and brambles bent where something forced its way through. The old oak near the entrance bears fresh claw marks, too large and too deep to be familiar. Scents twist on the breeze, fear sharp among them, mixed with something strange and out of place. Beyond the border, the woods feel watchful, as if the forest itself is waiting.