Conversations continued, plates were cleared, footsteps crossed the stone floor. Then a faint smell reached the far end of the courtyard. It was not smoke, not rot, but something dull and heavy, like damp iron left too long in the dark.
Ren felt it. Everyone could felt it too.
The shadows near his feet shifted without command. Not spreading—tightening.
Nyxa's voice came low. "That's not weather."
Beyond the outer wall, the sky had lost its depth. The stars didn't fade; they dulled, as if something thin had been drawn across them. A gray fog crept upward from the lowlands rising.
It moved with intention.
Guards on the watchtowers leaned forward. One shouted, pointing toward the forest line.
Shapes were moving between the trees, slow at first, then wrong. Deer staggered into view, their legs bending at angles that didn't match their bodies. Their eyes reflected no light, only a flat, pale glow.
The fog touched them.
