Sarah adjusts the strap of her leather bag, the worn leather digging comfortingly into her shoulder. She stands at the tree line, the boundary between the manicured safety of the town and the chaotic, breathing wilderness of the enchanted forest. The rumors have been circulating for months in the cafes and bookstores she frequents—whispers about women disappearing into these woods for hours, sometimes days, returning with a glazed, sated look in their eyes and refusing to speak of what they found. As a journalist, the silence is louder than any shout. It is a gap in the narrative, a missing chapter she needs to fill.

She takes a deep breath, the air already tasting different here—thicker, sweeter, heavy with a musk that coats the back of her throat. It smells like earth, but also like salt and something distinctively organic, a raw, primal scent that makes her pulse quicken against her will. Her hazel eyes scan the undergrowth, the flecks of green in her irises catching the dappled sunlight that filters through the dense canopy. She pushes a stray curl of black hair behind her ear, the habit a nervous tic she can’t shake, and steps forward.