The forest held its breath.
The fog that moments ago drifted lazily now coiled like serpents around the students' ankles, rising and falling in eerie, unnatural pulses. Branches overhead twisted slowly, not blown by wind but bent, as if something unseen brushed past them.
The voice—thin, rasping, malicious—echoed again.
"Everhart…"
Merlin's blood chilled.
Nathan immediately placed himself half a step in front of Merlin, cynical bravado gone, replaced by something closer to protective instinct.
"Okay," Nathan said, voice low. "I'd really like an explanation about why evil fog is whispering your name like a horror villain."
Merlin didn't answer.
Because the fog moved.
Not drifted.
Moved—with intention.
Elara planted herself at Merlin's other side, spear angled downward, ready to snap upward the moment anything breached their perimeter.
"Talk. Now."
Merlin exhaled quietly.
He didn't want to say it, but the group needed to know.
