You force your gaze away from the willow and its dark pool, your feet carrying you back toward the treeline. The mist seems to thicken at your retreat, curling around your ankles like grasping fingers. A chill runs down your spine as the humming behind you grows louder for a moment, then fades into silence. The path ahead is barely visible through the fog, but you press on, determined not to look back.

After a few minutes of walking, the mist parts to reveal a narrow stone bridge arching over a stream. The water below is black and sluggish, barely moving. On the far side, two paths diverge: one winding into a dense forest of gnarled oaks, the other leading up a rocky hillside toward a faint orange glow. A wooden signpost stands at the bridge's entrance, its letters worn and illegible.