The bark of those trees is a dark, nearly pure black green, covered with irregular cracks, with extremely faint grayish-white phosphorescence occasionally flashing in the depths, as if something under the bark is breathing slowly.
The forest floor is void of weeds, void of shrubs, only a thick layer of black and gray leaves covering everything.
No one knows how many years those fallen leaves have accumulated, the bottom layer has long turned to mud, the top layer still retains the shape of leaves, but each step shatters them into countless pieces, producing a muffled crackling sound, as if stifled by thick blankets.
Duke turned around, his gaze crossing the shattered rooftop of the manor, looking into the distance.
At the edge of the forest, where the twisted black tree canopies stretch uninterruptedly into the distance until they blur into a dark line, a massive ridge rises from the earth.
