The ride northeast was quiet. No words, only wind and hooves. Trees passed in a blur—tall, skeletal things that rustled without leaves, their branches scratching the sky like claws.
Leon led the way, Mira and Tomas close behind. The ground sloped downward into a valley half-shrouded in mist, and the stench reached them before the ruins did.
Burned wood. Old blood. Something fouler.
They dismounted at the crest of a ridge. Below, the remains of the refugee camp lay strewn in disarray. Tents shredded. Carts overturned. Fires long dead. No birds, no buzz of flies—only stillness.
Mira drew her dagger. Tomas nocked an arrow. Leon signaled them forward.
They moved in tight formation, every step cautious. The moment they entered the camp proper, the air changed. Heavier. Warped.
"Magic was worked here," Mira whispered. "Not just blood. Something ritualistic."
