As soon as they entered the copse of trees, Loghlan knew that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
The trees themselves seemed sick, dying before his eyes in a way that no natural illness could explain. The evergreens that should have been green and vibrant even in winter were dropping needles in steady streams, creating brown carpets on the forest floor. As their horses moved forward, the sound of snapping twigs was unnaturally loud, and when Loghlan's mount accidentally brushed against a low-hanging branch, the entire limb broke off with a dry crack.
He caught the fallen branch before it hit the ground and examined it with growing alarm. The outside bark looked normal enough, but where the branch had broken, the interior was nothing but powdery sawdust, as if the tree had been dead and desiccated for years, but if that was the case, it would have fallen to a strong storm long ago.
