We didn't speak for hours. Only the crunch of boots in snow and the low howl of distant winds kept us company.
The terrain had changed. The trees thinned into skeletal silhouettes—branches like claws, bark riddled with frost rot. Even the snow was wrong here. It didn't melt, didn't compress beneath our steps. It whispered.
Every few minutes, someone would look over their shoulder. No one said what we all felt: something was walking with us. It just didn't have a body.
Roderick called a halt by a glacial ridge. The sun hung frozen above, unable to pierce the clouds.
"Camp here. Minimal fire. No magic unless absolutely necessary," he said, his voice hoarse. "We're in a place that remembers too much."
Garrick and Felix began setting up a perimeter. Mira was sketching sigils in the snow with a cold-gloved hand, curses laced into every angle. Leo, pale and jittery, muttered to himself near the fire.
Wallace tried to complain, but even he had gone quiet since the dream.
