The fog in the square was thick enough to taste. It tasted like wet iron and old mold.
Vane stood on the cobblestones outside the Inn. His spear was leveled. The silver mana of the [Silver Fang] coated the star-metal tip in a silent and deadly shroud.
Isole stood five paces behind him. Her staff glowed with a white and steady light. It cut a cone of visibility through the gloom.
"Visual," Vane said softly.
"Twelve targets," Isole reported. Her voice was steady. "Fan formation. They are circling the perimeter."
The clicking sound stopped.
The shadows detached themselves from the walls of the houses.
The Grain-Maws stepped into the light. They were nightmare distortions of nature. They were the size of wolves but built like beetles. Their bodies were encased in thick black chitin plates that glistened with moisture. Their mandibles dripped a viscous green fluid that sizzled when it hit the stone.
They hissed. It was a sound like steam escaping a valve.
