The caravan moved at dusk, just as Sofia had commanded.
Behind them, smoke still bled from the ruin, drifting upward in jagged columns that clawed at the fading light. To the caravan it was no mere smoke, but a banner, a mark announcing their survival, or their folly, to every set of eyes in the wilds. The wheels of the wagons creaked like weary bones. Hooves struck against stone in hollow rhythm. Armor rattled in muted clinks, each sound too loud for travelers who dared not speak.
The valley's air was sharp, laced with the tang of ash and freshly turned earth. Every shallow grave they left behind seemed to whisper after them.
Leo walked near the rear, apart from the others. He told himself it was solitude he wanted. Yet solitude brought no peace.
The shard pulsed faintly within his chest, each throb aligning too perfectly with his footsteps. When the wind shifted through the ridges, the thing hummed, subtle yet clear, as though it sensed more than he did.
