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Third Person POV
The journey into the dead forest began in absolute, unnerving silence. Hermione walked at the vanguard, her eyes closed and her breathing remarkably shallow. Deep within her mind, her unshielded consciousness walked the phantom cobblestones of Chroyane, following the divine call of Mother Rhoyne. In the waking world, her physical body mirrored her dream-state perfectly, stepping confidently through the treacherous, root-choked mud without ever opening her eyes.
Flanking her on either side were Hadrian and Hazkar. To protect her exposed, trancing form from the suffocating corruption of the mist, the two deities were forced into a delicate and unprecedented cooperation. Hadrian extended his hands, a brilliant, emerald aura flaring to life around him. Hazkar mirrored the gesture, drawing upon the muted, shimmering light of his ancient magic. As their two distinct divine energies met, they melded together, forming a sturdy, luminous dome that forcefully pushed the oppressive grey fog several paces back.
But the mist did not surrender its territory easily.
Within the first few hours of their trek, the dead woods came violently alive. Drawn by the beacon of their divine magic and the raw mana leaking from Hermione's unshielded mind, feral Stone Men surged from the underbrush in rabid packs.
Hadrian intercepted the first wave with ruthless efficiency. As three heavily petrified mortals lunged toward Hermione's blind side, the young Godling stepped directly into their path. His goblin steel broadsword sang as it cut the damp air. He ducked beneath a clumsy, heavy swing from the lead creature, bringing his blade up in a devastating diagonal arc that severed the monster from hip to shoulder. The second Stone Man leapt wildly, its jaws snapping, but Hadrian gracefully pivoted on his heel, driving his heavy boot into the creature's kneecap. As the joint shattered with a sickening crunch, Hadrian reversed his grip and drove his sword straight down through the back of its rocky skull.
On the opposite flank, Hazkar fought with the brutal weight of a millennium of survival. He did not bother with blades. When a massive, diseased brute charged him, the Old Man of the River simply stepped forward, deliberately hardening his arm until the mortal flesh gave way to his thick, iridescent green shell. He caught the Stone Man's sweeping fist in his open palm. With a sickening twist of his waist, Hazkar brutally snapped the creature's arm before driving his own hardened, claw-like fist directly through the monster's petrified chest plate, crushing its corrupted heart.
The journey continued like this for several exhausting days. The trio fell into a gruelling rhythm. They would travel for hours behind Hermione's flawless, unseeing navigation, only stopping to establish heavily guarded camps. During these minor stops, Hermione would finally open her eyes, collapsing into the mud to eat and briefly sleep before forcing her mind back into the dreamscape to lead them further.
As they pressed deeper into the heart of the Rhoyne, the grotesque reality of the mist became terrifyingly apparent. The damp earth became increasingly littered with the rotting and petrified corpses of those who had failed the maze. They stepped over the skeletal remains of lost mercenaries, the bloated, disease-ridden carcasses of massive horses, and even the tiny, fragile bones of birds that had foolishly flown into the poisonous canopy and dropped dead from the sky.
Yet, on the dawn of their fourth day of travel, an eerie, unnatural calm settled over the dead forest.
Hadrian kept his broadsword drawn, his emerald eyes constantly scanning the thick, swirling fog beyond their protective dome. He fell into step beside the ancient deity.
"The intensity is fading," Hadrian murmured, his voice laced with heavy suspicion. "We haven't been attacked by a single straggler in half a day. They were throwing themselves at us in droves yesterday."
Hazkar gripped his wooden staff tightly, his single good eye narrowing at the gloomy tree line. "It is indeed strange," he agreed, his gravelly voice tight with tension. "The mist usually throws absolutely everything it has at intruders to break their will. To simply cease the assault... it implies a coordinated intent."
Despite their mounting unease, Hermione did not falter. She marched them relentlessly forward until the dead trees suddenly broke, revealing the vast, sluggish, and black waters of the Rhoyne riverbank. From here, the path was a straight, unavoidable walk.
The mist had grown impossibly thick, clinging to the water like a suffocating blanket. But as they walked along the muddy banks, the fog finally began to part, revealing the staggering, colossal ruins of Chroyane. Sunken spires of pale marble jutted from the black water, and shattered, ancient bridges connected the drowned plazas of the once-glorious city state.
Seeing the legendary ruins of his civilisation, Hazkar's stoic composure completely shattered. Sombreness littered his entire demeanour. He stepped ahead of Hadrian and Hermione, raising his arms toward the ruined temple in the distance.
"Mother, I am here!" Hazkar exclaimed, his voice echoing with a thousand years of untamed joy and sadness.
His shout broke the unnatural silence of the dead city.
Suddenly, the ruins violently came alive. From behind every sunken spire, from the depths of the shattered plazas, and from beneath the black waters themselves, thousands of Stone Men emerged. They did not attack as rabid beasts. They stood in eerie, absolute unison, their milky eyes glowing in the gloom, forming an endless, petrified army blocking the path to the temple.
From the center of the massive horde, the crowd slowly parted.
A dark, shadowy being emerged from the sea of stone. He was draped in horrific, ragged clothing that appeared to be stitched entirely from cured human skin. The entity did not walk; he floated a full foot above the damp cobblestones, gliding slowly and ominously toward the trio. The level of suffocating malice radiating from the being made the surrounding mist violently churn.
Hazkar froze, his joyful tears instantly turning to ice. He tightened his grip on his staff and gritted his teeth, his voice dropping into a terrified, hateful whisper.
"Shrouded Lord."