The road ends here, or perhaps begins.

Three paths split away from the stone marker at the centre of the crossroads. The marker itself is old enough that the inscription carved into its face has worn to shadow — you can make out nothing but a pointing hand and the faint outline of something that might have been a warning.

The air is still. Somewhere behind you the village has already dissolved into the grey distance. There is no going back that way, not tonight.

To the west, the tree line begins abruptly — a wall of dark pines with no undergrowth visible beneath them. The canopy blocks the last of the evening light. You have heard stories about this forest. Everyone has.

To the north, a rocky trail climbs steeply until it disappears into low cloud. The mountain pass is the direct route, they say, if you survive the cold and whatever keeps its camp up there.

To the east, you can hear it before you see it: the low persistent sound of fast water. The river ford. Crossable in summer, treacherous in all other seasons. This is not summer.

The stone marker points in all three directions and none.

Open the menu to choose your path.