The sky had long since darkened above Umbra's End, but the forest floor glowed with a strange luminescence. Webs of old magic pulsed under their boots, humming through the roots and shattered stones. The trio pressed on in silence—Garrik in the lead, Phil just behind, and Bane flanking the rear, axe resting against his shoulder like a sleeping beast.
Their path curved beneath a crooked outcrop of stone, winding lower along a narrow cliffside trail. Garrik moved without hesitation, his hand tracing the same ridges and warped symbols he'd marked during earlier scouting runs.
"The bindings were stronger here last time," he said, eyes fixed on the moss-drenched carvings etched into the walls. "Now they flicker like dying embers."
Phil knelt beside a half-buried rune and brushed away the dirt. The glyph flared weakly at his touch—gold light bleeding into red before vanishing.
"Residual warding. Still echoing the old magic," he muttered. "But barely."
