The forest no longer breathed... it waited. The bonfire's ghostly glow lingered across Veythor's face, soft as deceit. Dasha still knelt before him, clutching the medallion like a dying heart. Around them, the night seemed to lean closer, listening. Veythor tilted his head, voice a velvet whisper through the dark.
"So, Dasha... shall we discuss the price of survival?"
Her breath hitched. The question slithered through her bones, cold and heavy, wrapping around the last fragile pieces of her resolve. She looked up at him.... this child, this strange creature wearing sorrow like a mask... and she could not even tell whether she was staring at a savior or a serpent.
"What... do you mean by price?" she asked, her voice barely more than air.
Veythor's eyes shimmered beneath the dying moonlight, neither kind nor cruel, merely knowing. He swung closer, the faint swing of his chain making a hollow sound, metal whispering against wood.
