The jungle was unnervingly still. No birds, no wind—just the rasp of Mael's breath and the squelch of wet leaves underfoot. His wounds from the transformation hadn't healed properly; the skin pulsed with faint heat, and his spine ached like it was still rearranging. The blood moon had long vanished behind clouds, but its echo still haunted him. He wasn't sure if it was the night that had changed… or him.
He pressed forward, drawn by a scent he couldn't name—earthy, metallic, sweet like overripe fruit. Something was guiding him, whispering through the leaves. Not a voice exactly… more like an itch behind his eyes. "Probably just jungle madness," he muttered. "Or I've finally unlocked the premium tier of hallucinations." He chuckled, though it came out more like a growl.
A clearing opened up ahead, bathed in pale blue moonlight. In the center stood an altar—old, cracked, wrapped in vines that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat. Symbols had been carved into the stone, some familiar from the vision he saw during the transformation. Others… moved when he wasn't looking directly at them. A gust of wind passed, and for a split second, he felt watched. Not stalked—studied.
His nose twitched. That scent again. But now it was stronger, laced with cold iron and something… ancient. As he stepped toward the altar, a soft sound slithered through the air. Not quite a whisper. Not quite a sigh. He paused. "This is the part in every cursed tale where the guy says, 'Hello? Is someone there?' and gets eaten." He hesitated, then added dryly, "So… obviously, I'm saying it. Hello?"
No one replied. But a shadow moved. A figure—hooded, silver-cloaked—stood on the edge of the clearing, just where the moonlight couldn't touch. They didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Mael froze, instincts sharpening. He couldn't see their face, but something about their stillness unsettled him. Not threatening. Not friendly. Just… there. Watching. Waiting. Like a glitch in the story.
The air felt heavier now, pressing against his lungs. He took a step back, unsure if the figure was real or summoned by his unraveling mind. "Maybe Kael's playing games again," he whispered under his breath, the name falling out before he realized. He blinked. Kael? He hadn't thought of that name in weeks. Months. Could it be him? Or… something wearing his scent like a costume? The thought made his skin crawl.
The figure raised an arm slowly and pointed toward the altar. Vines retreated at its gesture like obedient snakes. The stone beneath shimmered faintly. A sigil revealed itself—one Mael had never seen, yet somehow knew. He could feel it tattooed somewhere inside him, humming beneath his bones. It was not memory. It was inheritance.
"Great," he muttered, trying to sound braver than he felt. "Now we've got secret glyphs, spooky druids, and possibly cursed altars. All I need is a talking raven, and I've completed the supernatural bingo card." He smirked—but again, the humor barely covered the fear coiling under his ribs.
The figure was gone. Just like that. No rustle. No movement. Mael ran to the spot, but the ground was undisturbed—no footprints, no trace. Just the scent… colder now. Sharper. He stood alone under the fading moonlight, the altar behind him and the jungle whispering again. Only this time, it sounded almost like a name… not his. Not Kael's either. Something older. Something waking up.