Sandy crouched among the craggy rocks in the bone-chilling grasp of winter, her breath mingling with the frozen air. Her eyes, a vivid green like the oldest oaks, scanned the bleak valley below. With the innate senses of a dryad coursing through her veins, she had tracked the reek of death carried on the winds that swept through the borderland mountains—mountains that marked the uneasy boundary between Ravendrift and Glassstras.

Her gaze settled on the slow-motion spectacle below: an army of the undead. There was no discernible leader among them, yet their intent was as clear as the blue ice that covered the pines. Purpose—that much was palpable.

Her fingers twitched around her bow. She notched an arrow, pointing it towards the shuffling mass. She could probably take a few down, but then what? She was concealed now, but a volley of arrows would reveal her perch, and her position was far from advantageous.

Sandy carefully withdrew the arrow from its string, returning it to the quiver strapped to her back. She manoeuvred nimbly through the rocks, her form barely more than a whisper against the craggy landscape.

"Back to the forest," she murmured, the weight of her decision settling deep within her chest. "I have to warn the others. The forest must be prepared for what's coming."

As for the town of Ravendrift, populated by humans, Nixbob, Hobruin, Pucks and others, it was a pang of regret she felt, but only briefly. They were a species known for both their resilience and folly; it was every soul for itself there. With a last lingering glance at the shambling hoard, Sandy melted into the mountain's shadow, her feet taking her on the quickest path through the snow-covered ground, back towards the life-filled embrace of the woods.

The wind howled behind her as if voicing its disapproval, but Sandy quickened her pace. The forest called her a siren song of leaf and root, and she had warnings to deliver. No, she wasn't a hero in the tales of old, but she was a dryad, a protector of her sacred realm. And right now, that was what mattered most.

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The evening light streamed through frost-laced windows, casting dappled shadows in the abuzz salon, filled with laughter, and every whispered conversation breathed life into the room.

Perdita manoeuvred through the crowd with her grace. A silver tray rested in her hands, offering an array of stuffed mushrooms and miniature beef wellingtons. Her eyes met those of the guests, always followed by a courteous nod or a whispered "Enjoy."

"You're a natural at this, Perdita," said Adamastor, who walked parallel to her, his own tray balancing goblets of spiced mead. "They can't take their eyes off you."

She chuckled. "They're not looking at me. They're looking at the food, Mr. Adamastor. But thank you for the compliment."

As they vanished briefly into the kitchen to replenish their trays, the echoes of their laughter mingled with the animated voices of the salon.

Meanwhile, several hallways and closed doors away, a different sort of scenario was in play. Nord hunched over a gentleman strapped to her reclining chair. The mechanical buzz of Nord's tattoo machine filled the room, vibrating in a steady tune that seemed almost ritualistic.

"How much longer?" The gentleman winced in pain as Nord's needle printed over his skin, leaving behind a trail of ink that began to form a wolf's head. A magical charm of bravery.

"Patience," Nord muttered without lifting his gaze. "A spell takes time."

The gentleman sighed but nodded, steeling himself for the sharp pricks that would continue for some time.

Amidst the pulsating life that swarmed throughout the manor, Baal discovered no sanctuary. The place was a vivid hive, teeming with activity, but within its buzzing walls, he felt only a disquieting emptiness.

A nagging restlessness gnawed at him like the persistent itch of a phantom limb. He felt as though his very skin was too tight, suffocating him. An invisible current of electricity seemed to jolt through Baal, making it impossible to stay still.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the room as if the answer to his discomfort lay hidden among the faces. Was it his conscience speaking, remembering him how he tricked Nord? With a sense of urgent claustrophobia, Baal stepped outside, hoping the crisp winter air would cleanse whatever darkness had lodged itself into his psyche.

The cold air was like a web, thin but pervasive, clinging to Baal as he stepped away from the warm glow of the manor's hearth. He found Merlin standing alone, leaning on his wooden staff as old as the wizard. His eyes were fixed on the night sky as though he were deciphering an arcane script written in the constellations.

"You feel it too, don't you, young demon?" Merlin's voice broke the silence, imbued with a depth that pulled at Baal's core. The laughter and chatter from inside the manor seemed suddenly trivial, a childish game of pretend.

"Yeah, it's unsettling," Baal admitted, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. "Like a constant itch in the back of my brain, driving me nuts."

Merlin finally turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You don't like being in the dark, do you?"

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Baal snorted. "Ah, are we playing a game where we state the obvious? Okay then... the sky has two moons. Your turn."

Merlin's mouth tightened into a weary line. "This is no time for jest, Baal."

That's when it struck him—Merlin felt it, too. This nebulous disquiet clung to him like a second skin. Rather than comforting Baal, the shared experience intensified his sense of foreboding.

"What's happening, Merlin? A spell gone awry? Some cosmic event? I can't pin it down."

"No idea...," Merlin sighed, his eyes drifting back to the night sky as if seeking answers. "But this is different. This is something...bigger."

"Primordial, you mean?" Baal looked at the wizard sharply. "You're thinking it's connected to the Nethersphere?"

Merlin shook his head, his eyes reflecting a deepening worry. "No, this is as if the core of Nyu itself is holding its breath. Waiting."

"Waiting? For what?" Baal felt a fresh wave of unease wash over him.

"That, young demon," Merlin said, his eyes meeting Baal's with a gravity that sent shivers down his spine, "is what terrifies me the most. The not knowing."

"I hate to feel like this..."

Nord swung open the heavy double doors, leaving behind the clinking of glasses and idle chatter from the salon. With a grin as playful as it was infectious, she approached Merlin and Baal. Each hand steadied a mug of frothy beer, and a third one perched perilously between her arm and chest. "What's going on here, boys? You two look like you're either plotting the end of the world or trying to prevent it."

She handed them their mugs, the froth spilling over just a touch as she released her grip.

"We were just discussing the... air," Merlin replied, his words wrapped in a diplomatic vagueness that clashed with the gravity of their prior conversation.

Nord tilted her mug back and took a hearty gulp, foam flecking her upper lip. "Well, it's crisp and smells like pine—almost like Christmas! Makes me want to go chop down a tree."

"Nyu Nord doesn't celebrate Christmas," Baal interjected, his eyes lingering on the amber liquid before he took a cautious sip. The beer was sharp, with a tangy bitterness that struck the back of his tongue, yet it failed to clear the murky cloud that had settled over him.

"Someone is grumpy today." Nord's eyes still twinkled as she added, "So what are the Ashleys doing by the lake? Putting up decorations for what exactly?"

"It's a ritual to welcome the winter," Merlin explained. "They believe it persuades the colder months to be gentler on the townspeople."

Nord's face seemed to brighten at the news, if that were even possible. "That sounds awesome! As soon as I'm done with this beer, I'm off to join them. If you can't beat them, join them—or in this case, if you can't understand them, join them anyway, right? No, is it just me?"

Merlin's stern expression broke into a soft chuckle as if Nord's unbridled joy were an infectious melody. "You're certainly a breath of fresh air, young Morningstar."

Nord drained the rest of her beer with the kind of gusto that would put seasoned drinkers to shame. "Didn't Baal tell you? I'm on the verge of recovering my lost memories!" She handed her empty mug to Baal. "I'm super excited! Just waiting on a walking tower to knock at my door and make it happen!"

Merlin's gaze snapped to Baal's. "Tower? The Tower?" His voice was a murmur, tinged with a sense of urgency that seemed to push the temperature down another degree.

Baal's eyes narrowed, locking onto Merlin's with no words.

Oblivious to the thick tension that had just descended, Nord was already turning on her heels, bounding backward to the warmth and light of the salon. "Come on, you gloomy lot! Finish your beers, and let's go decorate a lake or something!"

The lakeside was a tableau of celebration and community. Golden ribbons shimmered in the dying light, and candles ensconced in jars cast their gentle glow upon the still water. A table laden with treats beckoned while children—including Bram and Kirara—slid gleefully across the lake's frozen surface. The Ashleys continued their work, weaving bright ribbons and paper ornaments into a tall tree that stood sentinel over the festivities.

Nord couldn't contain her excitement. She flung herself onto the ice, laughing and whooping as she joined Bram and Kirara in their playful sliding. The sun dipped closer to the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, but the joy at the lake remained undimmed.

Yet Baal stood apart, watching, his shoulders tense. Merlin observed him discreetly, sensing the deepening of his unease.

"It smells..." Baal started.

"Candles?" Merlin offered.

"No," Baal shook his head.

"Pine?"

"No," he repeated, his eyes never leaving Nord, who was now trying to spin on the ice, her arms outstretched and face tilted up to catch the last rays of sunlight.

Merlin sniffed the air, pondering. "I can only detect garlic and... rotten cabbage, oddly enough."

"And what would smell like foul garlic and rotten cabbage?" Baal finally tore his gaze away from Nord to look at Merlin.

Merlin gestured with his gnarled staff toward the revelry. "Look at them, Baal. Look at your wife, at the children—all full of life and bliss. Perhaps it's nothing more than spoiled food causing that unpleasant odour. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar."

Baal's eyes shifted back to Nord, who was sharing a gleeful moment with Kirara. Even after taking a fall on the ice, she laughed harder, embodying the very essence of joy and life. It was infectious, and for a moment, Baal felt his worries lift, replaced by the simplest but most profound desire to join them—to be part of that happy memory in the making.

But then he saw it, something darting through the periphery of the forest that framed the lake: quick, almost insubstantial shapes. One, two, four—dryads. His eyes narrowed, and his breath caught.

"Dryads," Baal muttered, "four of them at the edge of the forest."

Merlin's posture stiffened, his own eyes following Baal's line of sight. "Dryads, you say? Here?"

"Yeah, and not just one—four of them. It's unusual for them to venture this far from the heart of their forest. They must have a reason."

Merlin tightened his grip on his staff. "Dryads are deeply connected to their habitats. They don't abandon the heart of their woods unless something dire forces them to."

"Exactly," Baal confirmed, his voice tinged with apprehension.

Merlin's eyes betrayed a gravitas that seemed to age him in the span of that moment. "It seems we may not be given the luxury of dismissing our concerns as mere superstition. Something is amiss, and it's not just a bad batch of Ashley cooking. It stinks."

"Agreed. Our unease, the dryads, maybe even the smell—it's all connected, isn't it?"

Merlin nodded. "I believe so. And I believe we need to get to the bottom of this before whatever is brewing in the shadows steps into the light."

Just as Baal was turning away, his eyes caught a figure emerging from the forest, staggering toward the lake. It was an unsettling sight—a humanoid shape with a drooping head and skin that looked as if it had been seared and blistered by relentless sun. No natural creature should look like that. No creature that would still breathe life.

"Get out! Everyone get out!" Baal's voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the laughter and chatter that had filled the air moments before, "GET OUT NOW!"