Morning came without birdsong.
Mist draped the ground in a pale sheet, curling around boots and stone markers like ghostly fingers. The camp was quiet—no one spoke more than necessary. Even the knights, usually chatty while striking camp, packed in silence.
Oliver stood in front of the boundary stone from yesterday, tracing the faded runes with his fingers. Cold. Old. Waiting.
Elisha approached, now dressed in travel leathers rather than royal garb. A plain cloak covered her shoulders, but there was still a certain grace in how she stood.
"There should be more of these ahead," she said quietly. "The expedition left them as a guide."
Isolde stepped forward, arms crossed. "Let's get this over with. The sooner we see what's hidden here, the sooner we decide whether it's worth dying for."
They moved.
