The cliff path narrowed until they had to walk single file. Jagged rock hemmed them in on one side; a sheer drop stretched endlessly on the other. Wind howled between the peaks, dragging mist across the ridge like slow-moving fingers. Somewhere far below, the sound of water echoed—a falls or a river, distant but constant.
Tomas walked ahead now, his bow slung and knife drawn. Mira followed, limping less with every step. Leon took the rear, eyes on the trail behind them. He didn't speak. Neither did the others.
Every sound that wasn't their breath felt suspicious.
The ridge twisted higher, narrowing again until they reached a crooked archway of stone. Beyond it, the path opened into a strange basin—natural, but sunken like an old crater. At the centre stood remnants of a tower. Or what was once one.
