The mist curled low over the forest floor, thick and clinging like the breath of a sleeping giant. Shadows twisted between the trees, long and hollow, as if the woods themselves were whispering secrets no one should hear. Etheldra drifted through the gloom, her form barely solid—a wraith made of nightmares. Her hollow eyes scanned the dark, searching, always searching.

She didn’t walk, not anymore. She glided over the damp earth, the tendrils of her tattered gown trailing behind her like the remnants of forgotten dreams. The cold of the night caressed her skin, but she felt nothing. She hadn't felt warmth in centuries, not since the curse had bound her to the endless hunger, the need that gnawed at her like a festering wound. She craved it now—fear, the bitter taste of terror that made her existence bearable. It wasn't the fear of death that sustained her; it was the terror of the unknown, the primal dread that lurked in every heart. And she knew it intimately. She could sense it, smell it in the air like fresh blood.

The wind sighed through the trees, carrying with it the faintest scent of something... familiar. Etheldra paused, her twisted lips curling into a smile that was far too wide, far too eager. She could feel it, pulsing in the distance—fear. Sharp, raw, and unspoken. Someone was near. A lost traveler? A wandering hunter? It didn’t matter.

She moved faster now, her form shimmering in and out of focus as she closed the distance. The trees whispered louder, their branches scraping against one another like brittle bones, urging her forward. The fog thickened around her, parting only for her passage, as though the forest itself feared her presence.