The village of Brindlewood stood at the edge of an ancient forest where daylight seldom lingered. Though the townsfolk busied themselves with fields and trade, no one dared cross the tree line once dusk began to bleed across the sky. For as long as anyone could remember, people who ventured into the woods at night did not return—save for one or two who did, but came back changed. They whispered nonsense, smeared with moss and blood, their eyes hollow as caves.Elara knew these stories well. The villagers told them to their children the way others might tell bedtime tales. But