The northern gate loomed ahead, its silhouette sharp against the paling sky. A pair of guards stood watch, tired but alert. They glanced at Rhys, Caria, and the small drifting form of Puddle, then waved them through without questions. Whatever was happening on the north road, it had already made early travelers rare.
Beyond the gate, the road narrowed. The land rose gently, broken by scattered trees and low stone outcrops. Mist clung to the ground in thin layers, dulling sound and distance.
They moved in silence.
Rhys walked slightly ahead, eyes on the road and its edges. Before long, signs began to appear—scuffed dirt where boots had dragged, a snapped branch too thick to have broken naturally. A short distance farther, a dark stain marked the road, half-washed by dew.
Caria knelt beside it. "Blood," she said quietly. "Human."
Rhys nodded. "And no bodies. Taken, or cleaned up."
