The air at the West Ridge was different. It didn't just smell like rot; it felt heavy. The fog was thick enough to swallow the light of Isole's staff. It clung to their clothes like damp wool. Vane moved through the mist without a sound. He was a shadow among shadows. His spear was held in a low, aggressive stance.
Isole followed. She didn't look at the path. She looked at the small of Vane's back. She watched the way his shoulders shifted with every step. She watched the way he tilted his head to listen to the vibrations in the rock. She found herself matching her breathing to his. It wasn't a conscious choice. It was a rhythm her body had adopted without her permission.
"Stop," Vane whispered.
He didn't turn around. He held up a hand. Isole froze instantly. Her mana hummed under her skin, ready to flare.
"There is no scratching," Vane said.
"Is that good?" Isole asked.
"No. It means they aren't working. They are waiting."
