The sigil scarred the valley like a wound that wouldn't close.
It stretched for miles, too deep to fill, too exact to be natural. The earth bore its shape like it had been seared in by something older than flame. And it hummed now, low and steady, like a drumbeat through stone.
Leon felt it in his bones.
They camped just past the edge, in a ridge of broken granite where the trees refused to grow. There was no wood to burn, no safe perimeter to draw. So they sat in the dark, sharing quiet glances and passing food they could barely taste.
No one suggested a watch.
There was no point.
If the sixth seal wanted them, it wouldn't wait for a gap in their vigilance.
Elena sat with her back against the stone, arms crossed loosely over her knees. She wasn't trembling anymore. But she wasn't calm either. She looked like someone who'd stopped bracing for pain—because she knew it was already coming.
Leon sat beside her.
"The pattern's repeating."
She didn't answer.
