The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Evelyn was crossing the last living trail of the ancient elven road, the roots intertwined as if they had been shaped by careful hands in forgotten centuries. But now, the path that led to the Abode of the Spirits was dry. The mist hung heavy over the ground and the branches above her seemed bowed not out of reverence, but out of mourning.
She stopped in front of the natural arch that marked the entrance to the sanctuary. The moss-covered stone - once vibrant with pulsating inscriptions of living magic - was now faded. Dead.
She took a step. Another.
His heart beat loudly in his chest.
The Abode of the Spirits was one of the oldest and most sacred places in Sylvandor, where the elves sought wisdom, where pacts with the forest itself were renewed, where the Queen communicated with the elemental guardians. There, the whispers of the world were always heard. There, silence never existed.
But now...
Nothing.
