The Grove of the Whispering Stones wasn't just ancient - it carried weight. Each huge tree, cloaked in moss that looked like dried blood, stood quiet, like guards aware of time crumbling away. Sunlight hardly reached through the dense roof above, so the pair moving below - a mare along with a stallion - walked under constant half-darkness. Verdadera, a dark blue horse with a glossy coat, stepped gracefully despite the twisted roots underfoot. Quietness took shape in her stillness, every sense locked ahead. Four days now - they'd stuck to the worn trail, chasing what kept slipping away - but she didn’t show frustration or haste. Atlas, a stunning horse with fur that glowed like silvery-blue dawn mist over frost, didn’t care much for deep thoughts on travel. Instead, his tail flicked in annoyance, kicking loose bits of wet leaves from the ground. “I only argue when I am objectively correct about the situation, Verdadera,” Atlas muttered, nudging a particularly slippery boulder with his nose. “And the objective situation is that this path is leading us precisely nowhere interesting. We have walked in a spiral of historical preservation for nearly a week. I expected more drama.” Verdadera’s soft, soothing voice answered without inflection. “Patience, Atlas. This path is known. It guarantees a direction, if not immediate success. Rash movement leads to wasted effort.” "We're getting real good at doing stuff that goes nowhere," he shot back, pulling a soft groan from the mare. Atlas ate up the theatrics, fed off tension - didn't matter if the only fight was with the dull rhythm of the seasons. They walked by a ring of old stones, worn down from years. Right then, things felt off. Not because of noise or shifts in light - but like stepping into another kind of weight. The thick, moist air now had a strange smell - sharp and cold, almost electric, mixed with the tang of broken evergreen underfoot. Verdadera jerked to a halt - Atlas almost tripped right behind her. The quiet in the trees wasn’t just heavy anymore; it shifted, tense like something waiting. She looked down, trying to make sense of the quiet warning buzzing inside. Up ahead, her way forward stayed open, curving without surprise past a giant redwood tree. Yet off to the left - about six hoofsteps away - the spot where moss once grew thick and undisturbed now showed something different. Footprints looked new. They ran deep - carried serious presence without feeling bulky. Long, thin lines cut through the earth, pushing ahead like they were sliding on air. But what froze Verdadera wasn’t the shape or depth - it was the lack of mess around them. No torn roots, no scattered dirt, just smooth disruption, closed up tight right after. These marks veered hard off the known path, cutting straight into a tangle of sharp, gnarled bushes that nobody in their right mind would walk into. “Huh, check it out,” Atlas said, surprise swapping his usual sarcasm. Leaning closer, he caught a whiff right where the sharp smell hit hardest. “Definitely ain’t no deer. Not a bear either. Honestly? Probably nothing with a Social Security number.” Verdiera moved nearer on purpose, checking out the messed-up dirt. Though she normally stayed cool and precise, her thoughts now raced through different ideas. They’d come to this grove looking for old secrets - one tale mentioned a buried archive or maybe just one lone watcher. Instead of shortcuts, they followed the well-known trail used by travelers, which felt secure yet way too slow. These paths… they broke the pattern. Not calm, but charged - like a signal blasting through old limits, maybe even tied to what they’d been chasing all along. “Verdadera, please tell me we are not going to look at that,” Atlas pleaded, though his eyes were wide with curiosity. “It is clearly the path of something that wishes us ill or, worse, something that wishes to debate philosophy while covered in mud. It avoids the path, which is either genius or perilously stupid.” “It is neither stupid nor conventional,” Verdadera murmured, her gaze fixed on the fading impressions. “It is recent. Perhaps minutes old. And whatever made it was moving with purpose, Atlas. Not rambling.” She raised her eyes toward the dark cluster of trees. Not only did the mood feel different - something deep inside it had changed too. Those footprints? A clue left behind without a second thought on the ground. “This could be our chance to learn something important,” she said, the words quiet but carrying the force of a final judgment. “The path has yielded nothing but time lost. This track demands attention.” Atlas’s ears flattened dramatically. "Demands? It demands we stay away! Look at the thorns! Do you know how long it takes to wash resin out of a silver coat? A colossal waste of my natural luster!" She looked at him, the deep blue of her coat almost dark under the dim glow. Calm on the outside, yet her gaze stayed firm and unshaken. "Our job isn’t to keep you shining, Atlas - no, we came for truth; should that path get tough, then so do we." He blew out a puff of warm breath, nudging the dirt with his foot. The fight’s done - he got that now. Verdadera wasn’t loud, sure, but once she’d made up her mind, pushing back was pointless. “Fine,” he grumbled, embracing his role as the reluctant hero. “But if we encounter a muddy beast with poor conversational skills, I get to use my speed to retreat first, and you can tell the story of my valiant sacrifice later.” Verdadera almost smiled - just a little - which was unusual for someone so serious. “Fine. Whoever shouts most about it’s the one we’ll pick if things come down to that.” She moved close to where the sharp bushes ended, stopping just long enough to set her front foot near a narrow, odd mark on the ground. The spot was chilly, yet something about it still smelled familiar. A gut feeling - stronger than any guidebook out here - took hold and turned into dead certainty. Following the usual trail at this point? That’d be running scared. Taking this new route wasn’t chance - it was meant. She took one last slow breath of the thick old air, then lowered her head and shoved forward through the heavy plants, sure Atlas would come along - even if he complained. Right after they passed, the road disappeared, swapped out for some rough, shaky track they prayed led to answers. What they needed wasn’t on any map; now they’d face whatever came from chasing it down into the thickest, blackest part of the woods.