CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: OF FOG AND FLAME

The forest grew stranger the farther they traveled.

Branches no longer moved with the breeze but watched—arching subtly overhead like listening limbs. The ground grew soft, waterlogged, though they hadn't passed a stream in hours. Fog clung to their boots and

cloaks like greedy fingers.

Lib, though less talkative now, still tried to ease the mood. "This trail's known to split when no one's looking," he muttered one afternoon, leading them through an overgrown path. "Legend says if you don't

speak for too long, it forgets where it goes."

Tony tried to smile. He couldn't.

The box in his satchel pulsed gently. Not with sound—but warmth. Heat, like fever, radiated through the pack into his back. He hadn't told Clara how it had begun to whisper to him—not in words, but in

suggestions. Memories not his own, laughter not his own, thoughts that tasted like rust and sugar.

They camped near a grove of pale-barked trees that night, Lib pacing restlessly, checking the perimeter

again and again. He lit torches and wedged them into the earth in a circle.

"Ward flame," he explained. "Superstition. But sometimes superstition's all you've got."

Clara prepared a simple broth and handed Tony a bowl. He barely touched it.

"Tell me what you're seeing," she said, kneeling beside him.

Tony rubbed his temples. "Faces. Reflections that aren't mine. I keep remembering things I never lived—like

a crowd laughing at me, but it's not joy—it's hunger. I feel like I've fed from them. It makes me sick. And worse—part of me wants more."

Clara stared at him, jaw tightening. "Whatever this is, it's not you. It's inside you, maybe. But you're still you."

"I don't know anymore."

Later that night, as the fire dwindled low, a cry shattered the stillness.

Tony jerked awake. Clara and Lib were already on their feet.

A figure stood just beyond the edge of the campfire.

At first glance, it looked human. A young man, perhaps. But its limbs were slightly too long, joints bending

in odd angles, as though mimicking humanity but not quite mastering it. Its skin shimmered faintly—like oil on water.

Lib unslung a small blade from his side. "Stay behind me."

The creature spoke, but its mouth didn't move. Words pressed directly into their minds: Give him to us. The

vessel. The laughter must be fed.

Tony staggered back. "What are you?"

It tilted its head. We are echoes of the dark. Heralds of the grinning hour.

Lib tossed powder into the fire. The flames burst green.

The figure hissed and retreated, but not before whispering one final phrase into Tony's mind alone:

You carry him already. Do you feel it, feeder? The hunger?

Then it vanished into the fog.

Silence returned. They didn't sleep the rest of the night. Lib sat with his blade across his lap, eyes never closing. Clara

clutched Tony's hand so tightly it trembled.

And Tony?

He stared at the box in his lap. Still shut.

But the laughter now echoed just beneath the wood. Not distant. Near.