The forest floor whispered secrets only the serpents knew, the kind that coiled tightly around truths long buried beneath foliage and shadow. A single voice fragmented, bouncing off ancient trees, speaking in the tongue of rustling leaves and serpentine sighs.

In the clearing, where sunlight pierced the canopy, the echoes formed a pattern. A dance of light upon the ground, weaving stories into the buttermilk earth. There lay the remnants of forgotten paths, twisting and turning into realms unseen, habitual trails of the serpent's kind.

Do you know the way, they ask. The question asked not in words but in the slow unfolding of their presence, a Shimmer and a Whisper. One step forward, the other trapped between now and eternity.

She followed, not with her eyes but with her thoughts, tracing the outlines of truths distorted by time and habit. Each moment a reflection, not of what is, but what was and what, inevitably, would be again.

Deep within the forest's embrace, the stories took root. Roots that tangled in the earth, vanishing below the surface, only to reappear as branches intertwined with the clouds above, connecting the land with the legends of old.

You can find remnants in the lost archives, perhaps beneath the busy streets of Silverkin, where echoes linger and serpents whisper still: Lost Paths or Murmurs of Time.