Judge pressed his back against a jagged stone, breath ragged, blood still wet on his ribs. The air wasn't air anymore; it was the suffocating weight of silence thick enough to chew on. No birds. No bugs. Not even the wind dared to whistle. Even his own breath sounded intrusive, like it didn't belong in this world.
And yet he moved.
One step at a time, through trees that weren't quite trees anymore. Their bark had faces, eyes closed as if dreaming nightmares into the world. Their leaves shifted colors like bruises blooming in reverse, some curling inwards, whispering to one another in a hush of crackling tension.
A low, humming throb pulsed beneath his boots with every step, like the very soil had its own heartbeat — a rhythm he was not invited to join.
He gritted his teeth. "Alright. You wanted a real son? You get a real idiot with a sword."
The forest didn't answer. It just pulsed again. Like a heartbeat. Like it was alive. Or worse, like it was watching.
