The Path Unfolds

Lyra plunged into the encroaching twilight, the little girl's hand a surprisingly firm anchor in hers. The forest, once a familiar playground, now pulsed with a menacing energy, the trees twisting into grotesque parodies of friendly giants, their branches clawing at the fading light.

"Firstly, do not talk to strangers, for example, me," the old woman's voice, sharp as broken glass, echoed in Lyra's mind. She glanced down at the child, no older than three, who hummed a tuneless melody, seemingly immune to the prickling unease that crawled beneath Lyra's skin. The little girl clutched a small, worn leather bottle of water, a treasure in these shadowy depths. They'd scavenged a handful of wild berries, their tartness a fleeting distraction, before escaping the strange village.