Guardians of the Old Ways

The air in the hidden grove tasted of ages. Not the crisp, clean scent of mountain pine Ubbe knew so well, but something older, heavier, like dust disturbed in a tomb. Sunlight, strained through an impossibly ancient canopy, dappled the moss-covered stones that formed a rough circle. In the center, a gnarled oak, its bark like the hide of some primeval beast, seemed to pulse with a slow, deep rhythm. Ubbe stood at the edge of the clearing, his senses on high alert, the subtle thrum of the blight a distant, anxious heartbeat beneath the grove’s profound stillness.

Beside him, Ragnar shifted, his fur bristling almost imperceptibly. "This place… it feels wrong, Ubbe. Too quiet."

Ubbe nodded, his gaze sweeping the dense foliage. "It is not wrong, Ragnar. It is… waiting. We were told the lore masters were here, the ones who remembered the old ways before the Ravenwolfs became gods."