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Beyond the White Mountains, deep into the Snow Lands where the frozen plains give way to a shadowed forest, an ancient darkness stirs. For Fe'lil and her brother, Fey'lin, life in Canista's Woods has always been bound to the rhythms of the...
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Fe'lil stirred, her limbs stiff and her fur pressed flat from the long sleep of Burrow Season. She blinked, her amber eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness of the den. The earthy scent of the burrow filled her nose, yet something felt... off. Her whiskers twitched, sensing the stillness outside, an absence of sound that felt unnatural after months of hibernation. She nudged her brother, Fey'lin, who lay curled beside her, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, "Wake up, Fey'lin," she whispered, her voice rough from disuse. He stirred, stretching his paws and yawning, his blue-gray fur ruffled as he glanced around, blinking sleepily. Together, they crawled toward the mouth of the burrow, expecting the familiar signs of spring: the budding leaves, the warmth of sunlight on the damp earth, and the scent of fresh greenery that usually greeted them after the long cold. Instead, a strange, ghostly light filtered through the entrance, weak and pale. The air outside was still cold, a chill lingering in the earth that gnawed at her paws. Fe'lil stepped cautiously into the open, her claws scraping against frost-kissed soil as she looked out at the forest before her. Fey'lin pressed himself close to her side, his fur brushing hers as he stared wide-eyed at the scene before them. The forest lay blanketed in a dense fog that clung low to the ground, winding around tree trunks and covering the earth in a veil as thick and gray as storm clouds. No birds called out from the branches above; no signs of new life stirred beneath her paws. The trees themselves seemed skeletal, their bare branches reaching out like clawed hands against the hazy sky. Fe'lil inhaled deeply, and her nose wrinkled as an unpleasant, acrid scent filled her senses. It was as if the air itself had soured, "Something's wrong," she murmured, glancing at Fey'lin. His wide eyes flicked to her, and he pressed himself closer, leaning into her side as if for warmth—or reassurance. "This isn't spring," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Spring should be warm... alive." Fe'lil's ears flattened, and a shiver ran down her spine. As she took a cautious step forward, the fog seemed to press against her, thick and almost solid. Fey'lin shuffled beside her, his flank pressed firmly to hers. His gaze darted between the trees, his whiskers twitching with unease, "Stay close, Fey'lin," she said, offering him a small nudge of comfort. She felt his tension, the way he moved in sync with her steps, staying so close she could feel the soft brush of his fur with each step. His need to be near her was something she understood instinctively; the silence of the forest was unnerving, the chill biting deeper than usual.
They moved forward cautiously, their paws sinking slightly into the damp earth. The forest floor, usually alive with signs of life—small plants pushing through the soil, the stir of creatures moving about their business—felt eerily barren. As they walked, the dense fog parted slightly, revealing a familiar trail. Fe'lil recognized it immediately; it was the path that led to their friend Tahrin's den. She and Fey'lin often met Tahrin there, spending countless hours playing in the underbrush and sharing tales beneath the sheltering trees. Without a word, they turned down the path, their pace quickening as they neared Tahrin's den. Yet as they approached, an uneasy stillness settled over them. The den entrance was dark, and there were no pawprints leading in or out. Fe'lil's heart sank as she called softly, "Tahrin?" No answer came. Only silence met her call, thick and oppressive. Fey'lin's fur brushed against hers, and she could feel the tremor in his body as he pressed closer, his blue-gray eyes darting around the empty clearing. Fe'lil took a hesitant step forward, peering into the den. The earth was undisturbed, the bedding inside still neatly arranged as if Tahrin had just settled in for the long sleep—but there was no scent, no sign of her friend at all. It was as though he had simply... vanished. She swallowed, pulling back and meeting Fey'lin's worried gaze, "Maybe he's sleeping somewhere else. Him and Hareska were talking about sharing dens this Burrow Season," she murmured, trying to reassure herself as much as him. But the hollow feeling in her chest only deepened. They continued down the trail, stopping at each familiar den along the way. One by one, they found them all the same—empty, eerily untouched, as if the inhabitants had simply faded away. No sign of life, no scents, just the cold, stale air hanging thickly around them. Fey'lin's tail wrapped around her as they stood outside the den of their old mentor, an elder who had guided them through countless lessons about survival. His den, too, was silent and empty, "Where is everyone?" Fey'lin whispered, his voice breaking. He pressed his head against Fe'lil's shoulder, trembling. Fe'lil forced herself to be strong, her own unease mounting as the fog seemed to close in around them, dimming the light further, "I don't know," she answered quietly, but she gently nuzzled his head, trying to soothe his growing fear.
