The morning fog hadn't lifted, and it clung to the ground like smoke. The MRAP rumbled along a broken dirt road, tires kicking up mud as the vehicle swayed from the uneven path. No one spoke for the first hour. The silence wasn't awkward. It was caution. Everyone felt it—the pressure, like something was watching just outside the treeline.
Inigo sat behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The trees around them had changed. No more birds. No bugs. Just pale trunks and black branches, some of them rotting, some still dripping with leftover rain. The marshland had started about an hour back. Now, the forest floor was more mud than soil.
"Tracefinder still pointing?" he asked without taking his eyes off the road.
Arienne nodded from the passenger seat. "Yeah. Still south-southwest. Getting stronger."
