The company moved at dawn.
Wheels carved deep ruts into damp earth, mud sucking at hooves and boots alike. A thin fog clung to the trees, wrapping the pine trunks like funeral shrouds. It muffled sound so thoroughly that the creak of harness leather and the snap of reins seemed louder than they should, echoes magnified in the silence.
Even the horses were uneasy. They tossed their heads and rolled their eyes at shadows that moved when no wind stirred the branches. Breath plumed pale in the chill air, vanishing at once into mist.
Leo walked near the wagons, his hood pulled low, hands buried deep in his sleeves. He could feel eyes on him, always. Murmurs broke like twigs when he passed, silence sealing itself in his wake. The boy's words from last night, Reclaimer, had taken root like weeds in dry soil.
He heard fragments carried on the mist:
"…burned the cultist to ash, "
"…light in his veins, I swear it, "
"…what if he loses control again?"
