ainted, now imbued with the chilling memory of the shadow creature and the enigmatic stranger. She kept glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting those burning coal eyes

gasps. The normalcy of the worn wooden panel felt flimsy, a poor barrier against the unknown terrors lurking in the surroundin

ation of her grief-addled imagination. But the visceral fear she had felt, the undeniable physicality of the fight, argued otherwis

nctuated by guttural growls and the tearing sound she had heard in the forest. She woke with a jol

the old house, every gust of wind rattling the windows, sent a fresh wave of unease through her. She tried to sketch, hoping to ground herself

her Rhea. The landlady's cryptic words about the woods and the house had lingered in

rden a riot of herbs and vibrant flowers that seemed to defy the perpetual dampness.

h Avery. She listened patiently as Avery hesitantly recounted her experience in the woods,

n? – crossed her features as Avery described the golden eyes. When Avery finished, the old woman w

said, her voice raspy but firm. "Secrets that are

ar. She spoke of guardians, protectors of the balance, beings who walked between worlds. Her words we

d. "Some creatures are not what they seem," she said evasively. "Some walk a path unseen by most. It

words had confirmed that she hadn't imagined the encounter, but they offe

the windows with renewed fury. Avery found herself drawn to the attic window, peering out into the swirling

ght she saw a figure moving among the trees. It was too fast, too fluid, to be human. The i

rout. She couldn't simply dismiss what she had seen. The encounter in the woods had sha

her mind racing. The shadow creature, the golden-eyed stranger, Grandmother Rhea's cryptic wa

o understand what lurked in the shadows of Crescent Pines, even if it meant venturing back into the darkness that had terrified her. The artist who had retreated to find silence was slowly being