The dawn in Mourn-Hold was not bright. It was a gradual lightening of the grey fog until the shapes of the trees became visible against the slate sky.
Vane stood at the edge of the Deep Woods. His boots were coated in mud. The air smelled of wet pine and the chemical tang of the Grain-Maws.
"Tracks," Vane said. He pointed to a scarred patch of earth. "Heavy drag marks. They are moving something big."
Isole knelt beside him. She touched the slime left on the crushed grass.
"It is acidic," she noted. She wiped her glove on her cloak. "And fresh. This trail is less than an hour old."
"Then we are close," Vane said.
They moved into the treeline.
The woods were silent. The grey rot that afflicted the fields had spread here too. The trees were leafless. Their bark was pale and flaky like dead skin. There were no birds. The only sound was the snap of twigs under their boots.
