The wind stirred the treetops, their whispers threading through the heavy silence of the woods. Dragolina's breath quickened coming in short and sharp as she pressed her back against the rough bark of an old oak, her heart pumped out of control as if were about to pop out of her chest. The night was thick with shadows, shifting like restless spirits, but she wasn't afraid of the dark.
She was afraid of what lurked within it.
Somewhere ahead, beyond what's hidden in the moonlight filtering through the branches, he was there. She could feel it. The weight of unseen eyes, the restlessness in the air like a storm about to break. Damaine.
She had followed the whispers, the ones that hanged on the edge of her dreams, leading her back to this place. The woods had always held secrets, but tonight, they felt alive.
Watching… Waiting…
A twig snapped.
Dragolina stiffened, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The sound came from the clearing ahead, where the mist settled low against the ground. Slowly, she stepped forward, her boots sinking into damp earth, her fingers tugging at the locket around her neck.
Then she saw him.
Damaine stood right in front of her, his figure barely more than a silhouette against the moonlight. His head was facing the ground, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at something in the dirt.
A grave.
The mound of earth was fresh, the soil was uneven, as if it had been disheveled lately.
Dragolina's stomach turned.
"What… what is this?" she whispered.
Damaine's fingers twitched. The air around him seemed to shudder, as if reality itself bent to his presence. His voice, when it came, was hollow.
"Something I tried to forget."
Dragolina took a step closer. The wind made a wailing noise, sending a shiver down her spine. She could hear something now, beneath the rustling leaves and the distant cries of the night. A sound like breath, ragged and shallow.
Her blood ran cold.
The grave was not empty.
Something was inside.
And it was still alive.