Leif's pulse raced as he stumbled back from the ancient stone, his breath ragged in the chilled air. The forest around him seemed to tighten, the towering trees leaning closer, their branches like the fingers of whispering giants. He took a steadying breath, trying to shake the icy dread creeping into his bones.
"Pull yourself together," he muttered, gripping the hilt of his knife until his knuckles whitened. Whatever that stone was, it had stirred something deep and ancient, something not meant for the world of men.
As the wind stirred again, the leaves around his feet danced in tight circles, whispering in that same unknowable language. Leif turned, instinct pushing him to move, to put distance between himself and this place of forgotten power.
The path, once clear, now seemed less certain, the trees somehow closer, their twisted trunks casting long, grasping shadows. Leif's heart thudded in his chest, and his breath came in quick, shallow bursts. Had the forest changed, or had he merely stepped into a part of it never meant to be found?
He moved quickly, his boots crunching through the brittle underbrush, eyes flicking to every shifting shadow. The cool, damp air seemed to thicken, clinging to his skin like a cold sweat. He could feel it now, the eyes in the dark, the weight of unseen watchers.
A sudden crack echoed through the trees, the sharp snap of a branch breaking underfoot. Leif spun, knife drawn, his breath a harsh rasp in the stillness. For a heartbeat, the world froze, every rustling leaf and distant bird call falling silent.
Then, from the shadows, a figure stepped into view. Cloaked in ragged, moss-covered fabric, its face hidden beneath a hood of twisted, gnarled bark, it moved with the slow, deliberate steps of something that had walked these woods long before men ever whispered their fears around fires.
Leif's heart hammered against his ribs. He tightened his grip on the knife, feeling the cold sweat of terror bead on his brow.
"Who... who are you?" he managed to choke out, the words trembling in the air between them.
The figure tilted its head, a slow, unnatural motion, and for a moment, the world felt impossibly small, the towering trees bending closer, their whispers rising to a fever pitch.
"I am a memory," the figure replied, its voice like the rustle of leaves and the creak of ancient wood. "And you, wanderer, have awakened the path."
Leif took a step back, every instinct screaming for him to flee, yet his feet remained rooted to the spot, caught in the web of this living nightmare.
The echoes of the forgotten path had found him once more, and this time, it would not let him go.