Hours later.
The forest was still, but not peaceful. The silence wasn't serene—it was suffocating.
The search teams finally returned.
And when they stepped past the shattered treeline and saw the remains of their so-called "camp"…
Everything stopped.
The world tilted.
It was decimation. Not a battle. Not a massacre.
Slaughter.
Tents were upturned, shredded as if a storm had passed through them. Pools of blood congealed under the moonlight, soaking into the earth like sacrificial ink.
Limbs, torsos, twisted organs scattered like discarded meat. The stench—copper, rot, something sour—clung to their throats like invisible claws.
The forest didn't whisper anymore.
It wept.
And among the survivors, standing frozen in place, was Freya Winterbane.
All eyes turned to her.
Not in awe. Not in admiration.
But expectation.
Judgment.
