That night, the fire crackled low.

  Most of the camp was asleep. The vines barely shifted in the breeze. Even the insects were quiet.

  Rell turned in his sleep.

  Then—darkness.

  A place not real. Not physical.

  The dream pulled him.

  He stood inside a silver mist — no ground. No sky. Just void and breath.

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  And from it—

  The spirit.

  More solid than ever before. Its form: flickering blue light, limbs flowing like water, a vague face — no features. No name.

  It hovered near him.

  Spoke.

  A voice layered. Ancient. Distant.

  “If you don’t unleash the power… everyone will die.”

  Rell reached toward it.

  But it blurred — pixelated — vanished into wind.

  He woke up choking on breath.

  The jungle was wrong the next morning.

  Birds chirped off-rhythm.

  The air had weight. Like breath held too long.

  Ishro knelt near the water basin.

  “Roots… sour. They rot without cause.”

  Zariin touched a tree.

  “No wind. But the leaves twitch.”

  Grinsh tapped his knuckles to the dirt.

  “Soil’s hot. Not warm. Hot.”

  Selena frowned.

  “Something’s shifted.”

  Myla looked up.

  “Trial?”

  They all fell silent.

  Rell stayed close to the group that day. The feeling from the dream dug into his chest.

  [THOUGHTS]

  Not just fear. Warning.

  The second trial hadn’t begun.

  But the jungle?

  It was breathing wrong.