Nim stood at the edge of the village, staring into the depths of the Forest of Astram. The morning fog still clung to the ground, swirling lazily between the trees as the sun fought to break through. The village felt distant now, its hearths and homes shrouded in the warmth of mundane life, but it was not warmth that she sought today. The forest, with all its whispers and secrets, called to her, and she could no longer ignore it.

She checked her satchel, making sure the small bundle of supplies she’d gathered from the market was securely fastened. A handful of herbs for alchemy, some dried roots, a flask of water, and a small lantern—nothing special. It wasn’t much, but it would suffice for now.

The village market had been a flurry of mundane transactions. The chatter of the townsfolk had been thick with rumors, and Nim had caught snippets of children’s laughter—mostly from the ones who were supposed to be minding the sheep or the cattle, but had instead found time to run wild. She’d heard the whispers, too, sharp and pointed.

"You think she’ll drag them into the forest and feed them to the evil spirits?"

"It’s true, I heard it from my mother," a young voice had called out. "She'll use them to do her bidding, like that one girl she stole last time."

Nim’s fingers tightened on the strap of her bag. She sighed softly, assuming the children were just retelling the scary stories their parents must have told them about the forest. It was the same every time—those who didn’t understand the bond between the forest and her would always think the worst. The tales of her being a witch, of being a vessel for spirits, would always be passed down in fear and superstition. Yet, it still stung. She felt the familiar ache of alienation—a wound that had never truly healed.

She was jolted from her thoughts by the soft rustling of leaves behind her. Nim turned to find Isira approaching, her expression serious but determined. The healer’s young face was drawn, pale, and there was an unsettling glint in her eyes—one that Nim had not seen before.

"I'm coming with you," Isira said, her voice unwavering. "You’ll need someone who knows healing magic in the forest."

Nim blinked, surprised. "Isira, you don't—"

"I do," Isira interrupted, stepping closer. "I know the villagers are worried, but I want to help. I won't let you go alone."

Nim hesitated. She could feel the weight of Isira’s decision, the quiet defiance in the girl’s stance. Nim opened her mouth to protest again, but the words stuck. She had learned the hard way that the forest was not kind to those who came unprepared, but perhaps—just perhaps—Isira could prove herself worthy. Maybe the forest would answer to her in ways it hadn’t answered to Nim herself. After all, Isira had a natural affinity for the healing arts, and her presence would offer some protection.

"I’ll stay by your side, Nim. Let me help you," Isira added softly, her eyes searching Nim’s for understanding.

With a quiet nod, Nim finally spoke. "Alright, come with me. But be careful. This isn’t like the herbs you grow in your garden."

The two of them set off together, walking in silence as the village receded behind them. The woods, however, were another matter. The air here felt thicker, heavier, the magic palpable and twisting in every corner. Nim could almost hear it—whispering to her, tugging at her thoughts. Her eyes darted toward the shifting shadows beneath the trees. It was as though the forest was alive, watching them, waiting for them to trespass further.

The walk was long, and the deeper they went, the more isolated they felt. Soon, the path before them grew wild, overgrown with tangled vines and thick underbrush. The light dimmed as the canopy above them thickened, and Nim found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder, as though the village might appear behind them, too close for comfort.

Isira looked uneasy as well, her pace slowing. "Nim... do you think they’ll come for us?"

Nim paused, unsure of how to answer. "The villagers?"

"Yes," Isira whispered, eyes flickering toward the trees. "They think you’re leading me into the forest to die."

Nim’s heart skipped a beat, and she glanced at Isira. "Don’t believe them," she said, voice firm despite the lump in her throat. "The forest may be dangerous, but I would never harm you."

Isira nodded, but her steps grew slower, more hesitant.

And then, the rustling came again.

The air grew cold. The trees creaked, their branches twisting and curling as if something was stirring in the dark spaces between them. A sharp crack split the air, and from the shadows, a creature emerged—more horrifying than anything Nim had ever seen. The figure was tall, its body a mass of shifting shadows and tendrils, its face a featureless void save for a mouth stretched too wide. Its eyes glowed, blood-red, an unnatural hue that made Nim’s blood run cold. This was not an ordinary Etherling. It was... something far worse.

Before Nim could even react, the creature lunged, its mouth opening to reveal jagged, black teeth. Nim’s heart raced. She tried to call upon her magic, but as her hand lifted, a pulse of pure magical energy shot out, rippling violently and slamming into her chest. The Etherling howled, a sound that felt like nails on a chalkboard, and its monstrous form distorted as it attacked again.

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Nim’s hand trembled as she tried to gather enough power for a protective barrier, but the magic was strained, weak, as though the very forest itself was rejecting her.

"Isira!" Nim shouted, turning to the healer. "Stay close—don’t let it touch you!"

But Isira’s face was pale with fear, her hands trembling. She wasn’t moving. She was frozen in place, her eyes wide, mouth barely forming words.

The creature lunged again, claws slashing. Nim barely managed to raise her arm in defense, but the force of the impact sent her crashing to the ground. The creature was upon her now, its shadowy form looming, ready to strike. Isira stood, transfixed by terror, as the darkness closed in.

And then, from the trees, came the sound of shouting.

"Get away from her!"

The ground trembled with the pounding of feet, and Nim’s heart skipped. Through the underbrush burst a group of villagers—Kalis at their head, followed by Arven, Tressa, and a handful of others, all carrying pitchforks, torches, and crude weapons. They were here. They had come for her, just as the creature had.

With fury in their eyes, they rushed forward, shouting, "She’s a witch! She’s leading her to die!"

Nim’s stomach twisted with guilt and frustration as the villagers surrounded the creature, their weapons raised. The Etherling hissed, retreating as they pressed in on it. The mob’s sheer numbers forced it back, and after a few moments of struggling, the creature finally retreated into the deeper forest, disappearing into the shadows.

But it was too late for gratitude.

Isira, wide-eyed and pale, had already stepped away from Nim, her face full of terror. Kalis grabbed her roughly, pulling her away from the healer, his gaze filled with accusation.

"Didn’t I tell you she was dangerous?" he spat, turning to the others. "Look at this. Proof, right here. She’s a witch. A spirit summoner. She’s been using the girl for her dark rites."

Nim’s chest tightened as Isira was pulled farther from her, the girl looking at her with wide, fearful eyes. She didn’t say anything—only allowed herself to be dragged back toward the village.

"She was trying to kill me," Isira whispered, her voice shaking.

Nim stood frozen, her heart breaking as the villagers dragged her away. Her thoughts spiraled, the weight of their distrust heavy in her chest. She had been trying to protect Isira, to stop this very thing from happening, but now she was alone—more isolated than ever. And it was her fault.

The villagers moved away, murmuring among themselves, leaving her behind in the silence of the forest.

Nim’s hand tightened around the strap of her satchel, the last of her hope slipping through her fingers. She watched them go, the weight of her failure pressing on her like the very forest itself.

But then, in the silence, a small thought emerged. The Grove. She had to go. The forest was calling, and she could not stop now.

With a deep breath, Nim turned toward the deeper heart of the forest, her steps resolute despite the weight of isolation pressing down on her. She had no choice.

The Grove awaited her, and she could not abandon it.

Nim’s breath was shallow, the cold air biting at her as she forced herself to move forward, each step heavier than the last. The village was far behind her now, the angry voices of the mob fading into the murk of the morning fog. She could feel the presence of the forest growing stronger, wrapping itself around her like a shroud, but it was different now—more oppressive, less welcoming. The trees loomed over her, their twisted branches almost seeming to reach down, as though testing her resolve. They were waiting, and she wasn’t sure for what.

Nim felt the echo of the Etherling’s attack reverberating in her chest, the lingering fear from the encounter still thrumming beneath her porcelain skin. She had barely survived, but more troubling than the creature’s monstrous form was the understanding that she had failed. Failed to protect Isira. Failed to protect herself.

And yet, the Grove still called. Nim couldn’t explain it, but the pull was undeniable. She needed to reach it—there was no other choice.

Her thoughts shifted uneasily to Isira, still fresh in her mind. The girl’s fear, her wide, terrified eyes as she was pulled away from her. The accusations of witchcraft still burned in her ears. Nim clenched her jaw, trying to push away the guilt that threatened to overwhelm her. She had always feared this moment—the day when the village would turn against her completely. That fear had been realized today. She had been accused of witchcraft, of leading others to their deaths, and she had no one left to defend her.

As she trudged deeper into the forest, the silence became more profound, the kind of quiet that only a place untouched by time could have. Even the birds had stopped singing. Nim’s boots crunched softly against the forest floor, a far cry from the harshness of the mob’s footsteps, but it was the only sound she could hear.

The further she ventured, the more the air seemed to shimmer with a strange, unsettling energy. It was the magic—the deep, raw magic of the forest—that seemed to intensify the longer she stayed within its boundaries. Nim had grown used to its presence, but now, it felt as if the trees themselves were watching her, waiting for something.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was not as it had been. It was darker, more restless, and every crack of a twig or rustle of a leaf set her on edge. Her fingers twitched with the urge to cast something, to call upon the forest’s magic to protect her, but something—something she couldn’t quite grasp—stopped her. Perhaps it was the faintest sense of foreboding, the whispering uncertainty that brushed at the back of her mind, urging her to remain cautious.

She took a slow breath, trying to center herself, and for a moment, she let her magic flow gently, testing the waters of the forest’s will. The subtle warmth of the bond she shared with Astram brushed against her senses, but it was faint—distant, almost. It was as though the very heart of the forest was not responding to her as it once had.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The Grove. She had to get to the Grove. It had always been a place of power, a sanctuary where the deepest magic of the forest lay. Yeva had once spoken of it as if it were the pulse of Astram itself—the place where the forest’s spirit could be found. But something had changed. The Etherling, the dark force that had attacked her earlier, had not been like the others she had known. It was an evolved form, its power twisted and more volatile, as though the forest itself had become unbalanced.

Nim’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something crashing through the brush ahead of her. She froze, her metaphorical muscles tensed, and her hand instinctively went to the vial of healing salve at her belt. The forest was silent again, too silent, but the rustling grew closer. She strained her ears, her heart pounding.

And then, out of the shadows, emerged a figure.

It was a stag, but unlike any she had seen before. Its antlers glimmered with what seemed like starlight, pulsing gently with each breath it took. Its body was thin, almost translucent, as though it were not quite of this world. The creature’s eyes glowed softly, its gaze fixed on Nim with an intelligence that made her skin prickle. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the creature, the weight of her exhaustion and guilt momentarily forgotten.

It stood still, and for a heartbeat, all was calm. The magic in the air seemed to shift, the strange energy that had been lingering feeling less oppressive in the creature’s presence. Nim slowly approached, keeping her movements slow and deliberate. The stag’s eyes followed her every step, and she could feel the connection forming between them—the deep, ancient bond that tied her to the forest.

But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the stag turned and bounded into the trees, vanishing without a trace.

Nim blinked, her hand still outstretched, but she didn’t chase after it. The Grove was close now, she could feel it. The stag’s appearance had been a sign. A reminder. The forest had not abandoned her, not completely.

She continued forward, pushing through the underbrush, the weight of the world pressing on her shoulders. The Grove was just ahead, and she needed to reach it. She couldn’t afford to stop now—not when she was so close to the answers she needed.

The trees opened into a clearing, the familiar sight of the Grove greeting her with its serene quiet. The air here was thick with power, and Nim felt the faintest stirrings of something ancient, something wild and untamed. This was where the forest spoke most clearly, where the magic was at its strongest. And yet, even here, the unease lingered.

Nim stepped forward, but as she did, a sharp cry echoed through the trees—one that sent a chill down her spine.

It was a sound she had heard before. The sound of something hunting. And it was getting closer.