Chapter 7
Robin's Uneasy Intuition
Robin, clutching her grandmother's locket, feels a deep dread. Her intuition screams danger, recalling fragmented warnings from old tales about the forest's dark secrets.
The air in the hunter's lodge had been thick with the smell of decay and something else, something acrid and ancient, but now, out here again, the forest seemed to exhale a different kind of wrongness. It wasn't just the oppressive silence that had fallen after we’d scrambled out of that crumbling structure, or the way the trees seemed to lean in, their gnarled branches like skeletal fingers reaching for us. It was something deeper, a tremor in the very fabric of the woods, felt most keenly by Robin.
She clutched the small, tarnished locket in her hand, her knuckles white. I’d seen her fiddle with it before, a nervous habit, but this was different. Her eyes, usually so bright and observant, were clouded with a fear that went beyond the immediate terror of being lost. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her breath coming in shallow gasps, as if expecting something to materialize from the shadows.
"Robin, you okay?" Mark asked, his voice a little too loud, too boisterous against the unnerving quiet. He was trying to maintain his usual bravado, but I could see the flicker of unease in his own eyes. The compass, which we’d salvaged from the lodge, still stubbornly refused to point anywhere useful, its needle a frantic, useless dance.
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