Azrael slowly stepped past the threshold of tangled roots and broken timber, the sound of his boots muffled by the thick layer of moss beneath him.
The air was heavy, almost suffocating, a blend of damp soil, decaying wood, and something faintly metallic that reminded him of blood.
Every breath felt like inhaling the weight of centuries.
He moved forward, brushing aside a hanging vine as his gaze swept over the remnants of what must've once been homes.
Wooden frames stood crooked, eaten away by time and rot, their edges soft and frayed.
In one corner, half-buried under a mound of roots, he spotted the shattered remains of what looked like a carved wooden sign, the letters too worn to read.
The wind whispered through the broken structures, creating an eerie harmony, as if the forest itself was speaking in a forgotten tongue.
