Meanwhile, back in the forest near the old altar, it had always felt strange, even before the cultists arrived.
The trees were twisted here—some leaning just slightly too far to one side, others growing in shapes that didn't quite match the rest of the forest.
Some trunks curled in on themselves, like they were reaching for something that was no longer there.
The branches arched overhead in jagged patterns, creating a canopy that let in too little light, even during the day.
And the ground was always a little too soft. Not muddy, not wet—just spongey, like it had never really dried out, even under direct sunlight.
Stepping on it felt like walking over something that had been buried a long time ago and hadn't finished settling.
Today, it felt worse.
The white-robed figures stood in a wide circle around a raised stone slab in the middle of a clearing.
The slab was thick, rough, and cracked in places, but the runes carved into it were clear, though faded with age.
