Rumi Ren felt the chill deepen as she held the crimson sphere tighter. The rabbits seemed to watch, their eyes gleaming with an unsettling awareness. Each carved pumpkin pulsed with a sickly green light, mirroring the spectral mist rising from the tombstones. She’d been drawn here by whispers of a cycle—a convergence where shadows and rebirth intertwined. A sudden gust stirred the branches above, showering her with brittle leaves. The egg warmed in her hand, radiating an unnatural heat. Something was about to happen, she could feel it, something ancient and hungry. And she was at its center.