The sickly trees rise from the earth like broken ribs, their limbs twisted and skeletal, clawing at the sky with gnarled, blackened fingers. Something ancient festers beneath the surface, splitting their bark into jagged wounds. An ailing glow seeps from within—not light, nor warmth, but the faintest hint of waning. A solitary ember, ensnared in the process of decay. The roots coil and slither through the soil, knotted veins pulsing with a life of their own. The air is swollen with the scent of rot, damp earth, and old blood.

  And in the distance, beneath the warped branches, the shadows shift.

  The air presses upon them. It's not just the smell of decay, but a more profound affliction that penetrates the lungs and adheres to the skin.

  Aedric scowls, adjusting his grip on his sword.

  "I've seen many twisted places." His voice is quiet—soft, but edged with a sharpness.

  "Cities drowned in poison, where the streets reeked of alchemy gone wrong."

  "Cathedrals where the walls wept blood, their halls echoing with prayers no Great One ever heard."

  "A battlefield where the dead did not putrefy—where they stood, as if waiting to be called upon once more." He exhales, glancing at the Dead One. He squints as he looks back toward the forest, where the trees lean inward, their limbs curling like emaciated fingers.

  "But no man was ever intended to leave these woods."

  "The Veil does not claim all who enter. But it always takes... something." Lirian recites, watching the trees with the eyes of a scholar, but not the kind that studies with detachment. There is wariness there.

  Veyne walks just behind them—light steps, restless eyes, his usual smirk absent.

  He glances over his shoulder. Once. Then again.

  The trees do not move. Not while he looks.

  He swallows, his jaw tightening, as if something in him already knows what lies ahead.

  He lifts his gaze toward the canopy, where the branches seem too thick, too tangled, and too eager.

  "Then we mustn't linger."

  The path winds ahead, a trail of ashen soil cutting through the blackened roots.

  It shifts beneath their feet—not like sand or loose earth, but rather more respiratory.

  The trees droop closer as they pass. Their branches spiral inward, their rotted, wooden digits reaching toward flesh.

  Aedric notices it first. He stops, staring hard at the track behind them.

  "It was wider before."

  Veyne exhales harshly, shaking his head. "You're jumping at shadows, old man."

  But no one denies it.

  The whispers begin soon after.

  The echoes of words, thinly threaded through the wind, are not words themselves.

  The Dead One shambles ahead of them. It does not dawdle.

  As the trees recede, an oily silhouette emerges from beyond.

  It is not aggressive.

  It watches.

  The forest swells around them, the light—if it can be called that—struggling to push through the dense canopy above. The glow of the scorched sap throbs faintly, casting the trees in feeble, shifting hues.

  Lirian pauses mid-step, fingers clenching around their book, gaze scanning the treeline—concentrating.

  Aedric's steps slow; his hand drifts to his sword. The way a survivor does when he knows he is no longer alone.

  Veyne exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I simply desire to leave this dreadful place." His voice is low, his usual arrogance replaced with unrest.

  It is only in glimpses that they see it again.

  The oily darkness has taken mold, blinking between the trees.

  Taller than a man.

  Its hideous limbs bend at wrong angles, too many joints flexing with an unnatural grace.

  Its skin is woven from shadows, shifting, writhing, never still.

  A nothingness of tangled black tendrils makes up its visage, studded with too many eyes, unblinking, watching from the hollow spaces of its form.

  A shape that does not belong to the world they know—the seams being pressed against.

  It does not breathe.

  It does not stir.

  It only waits.

  Aedric halts.

  His shoulders roll back, his stance shifting—not in fear, but in readiness.

  "I know this feeling," he mutters.

  Lirian looks at him. "What feeling?"

  Aedric does not answer right away.

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  His fingers tighten around his blade. Knuckles pale.

  "This moment." His voice is lower now, heavier. "The moment before a battle turns."

  His gaze does not leave the trees.

  The presence does not flee. But it does not come closer.

  Not yet.

  They reach a small clearing, a scar in the heart of the forest.

  The trees do not grow here. The ground is bare, lifeless, as if nothing was ever meant to flourish.

  At its center, an altar waits—a slab of befouled rubble, its surface carved with winding crimson etchings.

  And upon it, the figures have changed.

  Once, there were three.

  Now, only two walk in procession toward a massive door.

  Featureless. Faceless. Identical.

  The final figure is still missing.

  And now, so is another.

  Veyne does not sit. He refuses.

  He paces; his fingers twitch toward the dirk at his belt.

  Aedric watches him, eyes dark, shoulders tense.

  "You're nervous, thief."

  Veyne scoffs, rolling his shoulders and twisting his neck. "I'm restless. There's a difference."

  "Is there?" Aedric's voice is low, edged with tension that has built since entering the forest.

  "A thief is only loyal to the weight in his purse."

  His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword. The accusation is unspoken, but it lingers in the air.

  Veyne's smirk is edged, but it does not reach his eyes. "Fortunate for you that I haven't been paid, then."

  Lirian traces the crimson carvings, eyes narrowed in thought.

  Their voice is quiet, but it cuts through the tension with ease.

  "The Door does not grant passage."

  They drag their fingers along the etched lines, unreadable to anyone but them.

  "It grants no return."

  They glance at Veyne, head tilting slightly.

  "Aedric and I have spoken of what we seek." Their tone is neither demanding nor accusing—only curious. "But you, Hollow Smirk... you never told us why you run."

  Veyne turns his attention away, his fingers flexing at his sides.

  Lirian does not press. They only watch him with that same unreadable gaze.

  "Nothing awaits us, Veyne. Nothing but the Door." Their eyes flicker toward the altar, at the figures that have already begun to vanish. "So what is there left to hide?"

  Veyne chuckles, but it was thin, forced, and hollow.

  "Aye, that's precisely the reason for my silence."

  He finally meets their gaze, but there's something distant in his eyes. "The past no longer exists."

  His fingers twitch toward the dirk at his belt, a nervous habit.

  "And its bard's songs will parish with me."

  The Dead One watches him.

  The breeze turns.

  The whispers return—voices that do not belong to the living.

  And they are not alone.

  The forest respires.

  The wind dies, and the air grows sweet and stagnant—as if the trees themselves have started holding their breath.

  The twilight bends, stretching unnaturally between the foliage.

  It is here.

  It moves between the trees, too fluid for something that has limbs.

  Too silent for something that has weight.

  The Hunter.

  It does not lunge. It does not strike.

  It does not need to.

  Veyne stiffens.

  His pulse thrums in his ears. The air thickens—pressing in, clenching around him like unseen fingers.

  Something calls to him.

  Not with words. Not with sound.

  But with knowing.

  A feeling that twists in his gut—something deep in his marrow and instincts. A strong attraction towards an invisible force.

  His hand flies to his blade, but he does not draw it.

  His fingers tremble.

  He does not think. He does what he does best.

  He runs.

  "Veyne!"

  Aedric's shout cut through the trees, but he did not stop.

  He does not look back. Not even a single glance.

  His feet pound against the earth, breath ragged. The trees twist in his path, branches and roots clawing at him.

  They do not want him to leave.

  The others give chase.

  Aedric curses beneath his breath, armor clanking as he moves.

  Lirian follows; their steps are quick but uncertain.

  The Dead One does not follow.

  It watches.

  Its hollow gaze lingers where Veyne vanished—then shifts to the others as they fade into the trees.

  For a moment, it stands motionless.

  Then, it turns away, continuing to its destination.

  Veyne's breath hitches.

  The ground twists beneath him, and suddenly—there is no route left to take.

  Another clearing.

  The earth is askew. Hollowed. A split left a wound in the land.

  A grave.

  His own.

  Veyne staggers to a stop.

  His breath slows. His dagger falls from his fingers, landing soundlessly in the dirt.

  His eyes flicker with something distant. Recognition.

  The others arrive just in time to hear him whisper a name.

  It's a name they do not recognize.

  "Maria..."

  A long moment passes before the darkness within the earth begins to swirl.

  The Hunter rises from the grave.

  It does not maul.

  It simply extends its arms.

  Veyne steps forward, trembling. His breath is slow and uneven, but his legs do not falter.

  His hands do not reach for his blade.

  He feels her before he sees her.

  He senses a warmth he's long forgotten, the ghost of a touch. The promise of a voice he will never hear again haunts him.

  "My beloved..."

  He walks into the Hunter's embrace.

  The figure closes around him, its presence engulfing him completely.

  And then—

  They fall.

  Back into the grave, into the hollowed earth that was waiting for him all along.

  There is no impact.

  Only silence.

  And when the dust settles, there is nothing left.

  The silence is deeper than ever.

  Aedric and Lirian stand frozen at the edge of the grave, blades drawn but useless.

  There is nothing but dust.

  No body.

  No blood.

  Only his dagger. It rests in the soil, blade half-buried, as if it had always been there. As if Veyne had never held it at all.

  Lirian is the first to move. Slowly, carefully, they kneel and reach for the dirk—fingers hovering above the hilt, hesitant. They act as though it could disappear at any moment. As if the moment they touch it, Veyne's absence will become real.

  Their fingers close around the hilt. "You cannot outrun a debt with Death." The words are quiet. A murmur.

  An orison for no one.

  They do not look at Aedric when they chant it, and Aedric does not respond.

  The forest is still.

  The Hunter is gone.

  Veyne is gone.

  And the world remains indifferent.

  "We should return."

  Lirian nods. They tuck the blade into their belt, one final remnant of the thief who thought he could outrun what awaited him.

  They return to The Path, catching up to the Dead One.

  It walks. Unbothered.

  It never chased. Never strayed.

  Aedric watches it for a long time.

  "You knew, didn't you?"

  It does not respond.

  It does not stop.

  Aedric exhales, muttering to himself, his gaze lingering on the unflinching figure. His voice is quieter now, but no less firm.

  "Tell me again, scholar." His eyes flick to Lirian. "What do you know of these 'Dead Ones'?"

  "Not much, I'm afraid." Their fingers drift over the strap of their satchel. "But from what I've studied, when the End of All Things is upon us, the Dead Ones seek the Door."

  They glance at it.

  "The Door of No Return."

  Aedric soughs, shifting his grip on his sword. "Then where are the others?"

  Lirian hesitates.

  Not out of doubt. But because there is no true answer.

  "No one knows." Their voice flat, reflective. "Not many—if anyone—have ever seen a Dead One."

  "Scripture suggests they are either few... or there is only one. Perhaps both are to be true."

  They shake their head.

  "It's impossible to comprehend."

  The wind rustles, yet the whines have ceased.

  They fall into step behind the Dead One.

  The path ahead does not wait.

  Three now, where once there were four.

  The road stretches, unbroken, as if nothing had ever happened.

  The Veil of Thorns does not stop them.

  The twisted trees still loom; their blackened sap still pulses with dying light, but the branches no longer reach.

  The roots do not rise.

  The Hunter no longer follows.

  The forest has taken what it desired.

  But yet it still observes.

  Aedric does not speak.

  Lirian keeps their eyes forward, their fingers brushing against Veyne's dirk at their belt.

  The Dead One walks.

  The Door calls.

  And the ruins rise to meet them.

  Through the mist, The Faceless City emerges.

  The place, with its broken towers and sunken streets, has been either long abandoned or never truly lived in.