The wind shifted as the shrine disappeared behind them.
They traveled further into the woods now, moving in search of the rumored side-dungeon entrance concealed somewhere around the cliffs. The fog grew denser as they advanced, muting the songs of birds and swallowing the laughter of the poachers until only the sound of crackling undergrowth beneath their feet remained.
Kael's legs hurt, and blisters had formed on his hands from gripping his dagger too tightly. Despite this, he continued to move, always ten steps behind, watching and silent. By now, he had memorized their names even if no one had bothered to ask for his.
Dren the hawk-nosed leader,
Jarik the sarcastic knife thrower,
Bruke the hulking brute with a scar across his neck,
Fenn the jokester,
and the two quiet archers Laz and Torn.
They were killers, scavengers of monsters and men alike. But Kael wasn't afraid of them.
He was afraid of being forgotten again.
---
By the afternoon the group came to a clearing which the trees formed almost a perfect circle. Moss covered the stones and the air had a very metal note.
"We rest here, Dren announced, "The entrance is near.
Kael dropped his satchel and kneeled catching his breath. The forest here felt out of sorts. Cold. Still. As if what was in the woods was watching from beyond the trees.
As the others collected wood he stepped away for a bit. His eyes went to a downed log which rot had half devoured. The bark had strange black designs which ran it's length, like veins in transparent skin.
He reached out to touch it -
"Don't," a voice barked.
Kael snapped his hand back. It was Laz.
The archer stepped forward, gaze narrowed. "That's miasma rot. You breathe too much of it in, it starts changing your thoughts."
Kael blinked. "You've seen it before?"
Laz didn't answer. He just walked away.
But Kael saw the tremble in his fingers.
---
While gathered around the fire, they prepared the day's catch... a two-headed boar featuring glowing yellow eyes and bony spines lining its back.
Incidents such as these, featuring creatures which should not be present in the southern regions, were rare.
Kael In hand, seated on the other side of the fire , reading from the Memoirs,he did not partake in the feast. To him, the meat had a smell that was off, sweet akin to spoiled fruit and rotten essentials. While others feasted, he opted to drink from his flask's water supply instead.
He lingered on one passage:
> "The hero bled from every wound, yet stood. His shadow split the light. His silence roared. Even the angels hesitated."
He could almost see it himself, standing at the center of a ruined battlefield, blood running from his mouth, eyes glowing red beneath the stars.
A monster… feared by gods.
---
"Hey, runt," Jarik said, throwing a bone at him. "Still dreaming?"
Kael caught the bone midair.
"Always."
Fenn chuckled. "That book's going to get you killed."
"I'd rather die chasing something," Kael replied, "than live crawling like the rest of you."
That silenced the group for a second.
Then Dren stood. "Enough noise. Get ready. We move at dawn."
---
Kael slept lightly that night, curled near the edge of the fire pit.
He dreamt again.
This time, he stood in a forest of bones. Every tree bled, and the sky dripped red mist. A woman's voice whispered to him, soft as silk.
> "You are not lost, child. You are returning."
He saw a pool in the distance black water under a blood moon.
And in it, a face like his stared back. But with fangs.
---
He woke to silence.
The fire was out.
The camp was empty.
For a moment, Kael thought they were scouting.
Then he saw the boot prints leading away.
None coming back.
His satchel had been moved. His dagger, taken. The Memoirs were gone too.
He searched the entire glade, calling their names, pacing in every direction.
No one answered.
No trail returned.
---
They'd left him.
Alone.
---
Kael sat on a stump, shaking with rage and something deeper disbelief. He wasn't worth robbing, not really. So why leave him?
"Bastards…"
He stumbled toward the tree line, but the fog was thicker now. The forest pressed in, branches like hands, thorns snagging his clothes.
He didn't know which direction led out anymore.
His legs failed first.
Then the hunger hit.
---
By noon, he was crawling.
By dusk, he could barely move.
Everything blurred into hunger and pain. His body burned from the inside out, his blood boiling, throat like sand.
He lay at the base of a crooked tree, staring up at the distorted sky.
Something was growing inside him.
---
He could feel it.
---
End of Chapter 3
---
/> Lore Insert – Journal of High Seer Vorell, Year 11 After Eradication
"There were whispers that the curse did not die with the demons. That in certain wild regions, corrupted mana still lingers, seeping into beasts, roots, and even water. We call them 'Miasma Zones' now - unclaimed places where divinity recoils and nature warps. The Church denies their existence. But I have seen them. And I have buried those who came back... wrong."