The fog clung to the trees like a restless spirit as Alex made their way through the woods toward the old chapel. Moonlight barely pierced the dense canopy, and every snap of a twig made Alex flinch. The pendant pulsed warmly in their pocket, a silent beacon amid the darkness.
The chapel appeared suddenly, half-swallowed by vines and shadow. Its stone walls were cracked and worn, stained by years of rain and neglect. The heavy wooden door sagged on rusty hinges, but with a firm push, it creaked open.
Inside, the air was stale and cold, thick with dust and the scent of forgotten prayers. Moonlight filtered through shattered stained glass, casting fractured colors onto the cracked stone floor. The pews were overturned, and cobwebs draped like curtains.
Alex's flashlight flicked over the altar, revealing a single oil lantern resting atop the cold stone. Its glass glowed faintly, as if lit by some unseen flame.
Reaching out, Alex lifted the lantern. The warmth in their hand spread, and the shadows around them seemed to shift and ripple, as if responding to the light.
Suddenly, whispers returned—not scattered like before, but clear and urgent.
"The weave tightens… follow the light… unravel the thread..."
The lantern's glow intensified, illuminating symbols carved into the altar—runes that matched those from the fireplace at Wraithwood Manor.
Alex traced a finger over the carvings, feeling the cool stone beneath their skin.
A gust of wind howled through the broken windows, extinguishing the lantern's flame. Darkness rushed in.
Heart pounding, Alex fumbled to relight it. Sparks flew, and the lantern flickered back to life. But now, the shadows moved differently—curling and twisting around the room's edges, almost alive.
Alex knew one thing with sudden clarity: the lantern was a key—a guide through the darkness—but it also marked the path deeper into the Weaver's tangled web.
Steeling their nerves, Alex stepped back into the night, the lantern's glow a fragile promise against the encroaching shadows