The morning fog still clung to the treetops when Talon and I reached the western ridge. The guards who had sent the report waited in a tense line, shifting their weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking toward the charred trees as if afraid the marks might start burning again. The air smelled like ash and cold stone. A wrong kind of cold. The kind that crawled into your bones even when the sun was already rising.
Kael crouched beside the nearest tree, fingertips brushing the scorched bark with slow, careful movements. His brows pulled tight as he leaned closer, studying the strange shimmer clinging to the edges of the burn. “The lines are silver on the surface but they are wrong. Twisted. Not natural.”
His voice felt too quiet for the forest. Even the birds had gone silent.
Soren arrived
