Morning came slowly and gray. Mist clung to the trees like a second skin, wrapping the forest in silence. No birdsong. No wind. Just the steady drip of condensation from branches above and the soft shifting of horses as the group broke camp.
Kaelith moved like a man half-elsewhere. His eyes scanned the woods before them, but his mind wandered south, down paths only memory could see. Hale noticed the distance in his gaze but said nothing. He'd learned that sometimes, silence was the only language Kaelith trusted.
Elion and Lysaro packed with quiet efficiency. Elion checked the scroll case again, securing it against his saddle. Lysaro rubbed the back of his neck and muttered something about cursed mist and damp boots, but no one laughed.
They rode again before the sun had cleared the canopy, sticking to the narrow trail that curled through old pine and ancient stones. At Kaelith's instruction, they avoided main roads entirely.
