The night sky stretched above, an endless blanket of
stars twinkling like diamonds scattered across the dark.
The air was crisp, sharp with the scent of pine and the
distant trace of wood smoke. Beneath the celestial
tapestry, the landscape was alive, bathed in the soft
glow of moonlight that filtered through the branches of
tall, towering trees. The world felt impossibly still, as
though it was suspended in time, and in this stillness,
everything seemed to be waiting for something—
waiting for a sound, a movement, a change.
Miles away from any town, far from the buzzing hum
of city life, the silence was something else entirely. It
was not an absence of noise, but a quiet that filled the
space, pressing against the senses, almost as if it were
something tangible. The woods whispered, but only to
those who listened closely enough. If you stood still
long enough, you might hear the soft scurrying of
creatures hidden in the underbrush, or the flutter of
wings overhead as an owl took flight. Even the wind
seemed to move more deliberately here, rustling the
leaves with a sort of reverence, as if it were aware of
the sacredness of the night.
A figure moved through the trees, their footsteps careful
and deliberate, the crunch of fallen needles barely
audible under the soft hiss of wind. They wore a dark
cloak, hood drawn low over their face, but there was no
urgency in their movements. No panic. It was as if they
had walked these woods a thousand times before, as if
they belonged here.
They paused for a moment, the tips of their fingers
brushing the rough bark of an ancient oak. Their hand
lingered there, as if communicating with the tree, as if
the act of touch could unlock some hidden memory,
some secret that only the forest knew. A shiver ran
down their spine—not from the cold, but from the
weight of something unspoken, something buried in the
roots of the earth.
Ahead, the forest opened into a clearing, where a small
stone circle lay nestled in the grass. It was worn,
weathered by years—perhaps centuries—of exposure to
the elements, but it was still there, standing resolute
against the pull of time. The stones were uneven,
jagged, ancient, their surfaces smoothed by the hands of
those who had come before.
The figure moved forward, their pace slow but
purposeful. They stopped at the center of the circle and
closed their eyes, their breath steady. The clearing
seemed to pulse with energy, the kind of energy that
made the hairs on the back of one’s neck stand on end.
It wasn’t a feeling of danger, not exactly, but something
else. Something deeper. Something that felt... alive.
The figure raised their hands, palms facing upward, and
stood in silence for a long moment. In that moment, the
air seemed to shift, the very fabric of the night rippling
around them like a curtain being pulled back. The stars
flickered brighter, the wind whispered louder, and the
forest, as if answering some ancient call, seemed to
awaken around them.
A soft hum began to fill the air, almost imperceptible at
first, but growing louder with each passing second. The
stones vibrated beneath their feet, and for a brief
moment, the figure’s face was illuminated by the soft
glow of a light that seemed to come from nowhere. The
hum became a voice, faint at first, then clearer, until it
was all-encompassing, surrounding them with a
language they didn’t understand, but somehow knew.
The figure’s heart raced, but they didn’t move, didn’t
speak. They listened, and as they did, they felt a pull—a
connection, as though they were being drawn into
something far greater than themselves, something that
transcended the world they knew. It was a call, an
invitation, and whether they were ready or not, they
knew they had to answer it.
With a final, steady breath, they stepped forward into
the heart of the circle, and the world around them went
dark.
