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Mira's lantern sputtered in the choking fog, its brass handle slick with dew. She stumbled forward, pine needles stabbing her palms as she caught herself. The forest exhaled damp earth and rot, every breath tasting of secrets buried deep.

Behind her, the trail vanished into gray soup. 'Stupid shortcut,' she muttered, pulse hammering like distant drums. Then—a rustle, too deliberate for wind. She froze, beam slicing shadows until it pinned him: tall, cloaked, eyes like polished obsidian.

He extended a hand, leather glove creaking. 'You're late,' he said, voice gravel over silk. 'They've started without you.' Mira jerked back, but his grip held—firm, unyielding, pulling her toward the hollow ahead where firelight flickered through branches.

The clearing reeked of charred herbs and wet stone. Five figures ringed a pit, cloaks billowing like wings. They chanted low, words twisting in the air like smoke. One turned, face half-masked, and Mira's stomach dropped: her own eyes stared back from the stranger's reflection in a puddle.

'Join us,' the first man urged, releasing her into the circle. Heat bloomed from the pit, carrying whispers of her name—childhood fears, lost dreams. Her fingers tingled, drawn to the flames. What had she promised in that fevered dream years ago?

A pebble skittered from the ridge above. The chanters silenced. Eyes—dozens now—locked on the darkness. Mira's skin prickled; something vast uncoiled in the fog, hungry. The leader smiled. 'It's here. Your turn to call it.'

She backed toward the trees, heart slamming, but roots snared her ankles again. The stranger's hand returned, colder now. 'You can't leave. Not when it's answering.' From the pit, her own voice echoed back—a plea she'd never spoken aloud.