The forest had long since abandoned any pretense of normalcy.
It did not change in form. The towering trees still stretched skyward with their ancient trunks, and the tangled roots still carved uneven paths across the forest floor. The scattered ruins remained where they had always been—broken stone structures swallowed by moss and time. Even the faint rustling of leaves continued to whisper through the air, carried by a wind that seemed as indifferent as ever.
And yet, everything felt different.
Aether sensed it the moment he crossed the broken ridge of stone that marked the boundary of the previous hunting ground. The air itself seemed to tighten, as if unseen hands had drawn invisible threads across the space, weaving a silent net around him. It was not an illusion, nor was it merely instinct. It was something deliberate, something controlled.
The watching had changed.
Before, it had been distant—careful, almost curious. Now, it carried intent.
