The forest greeted them with sounds that were just slightly wrong.

  Insect calls that clicked in uneven rhythms.

  Wind that whispered like distant voices.

  Branches marked with claw scrapes not old enough to dismiss.

  But Bran led confidently, steps heavy and purposeful.

  “We’ll stick to the east trail,” he said over his shoulder. “Scouts only reported low-level demons in this direction.”

  Tyren snapped a branch underfoot.

  “Wish we had horses.”

  “Wish you had balance,” Lira muttered.

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  Sera covered her smile with one hand.

  Joren bit back a laugh — which only made Tyren turn and point accusingly.

  “You think I’m funny now.”

  But as they walked, something changed.

  At first, the tension hung heavy, every rustle a threat.

  Then slowly, laughter began to cut through it:

  Bran told the story of falling into a river and blaming the fish for “pulling” him in.

  Lira bragged about hitting a target eighty paces away — a story Bran rolled his eyes at but never denied.

  Tyren lied (badly) about defeating a demon solo.

  Sera admitted she once fainted during a thunderstorm.

  Joren found himself laughing more than he had in months — maybe years.

  For a moment…

  They didn’t feel like hunters on a mission.

  They felt like friends on an adventure.

  But not all eyes in the forest were friendly.

  Bran suddenly raised a hand — stiff, alert.

  The group froze instantly.

  Joren swallowed.

  “…What is it?”

  Bran didn’t answer with words. He, Lira, and Sera were already turning toward the trees.

  The forest hadn’t just gone still.

  It had gone wrongly still.

  Not a natural lull.

  More like something was holding its breath.

  Tyren lowered his voice.

  “…That’s not good.”

  The bushes rippled.