The first horn shuddered through the fog like a blade dragged slow against stone. It was not the call of hunters, nor the wandering note of shepherds on distant hills. It was low, deliberate, mourning and menace entwined into one sound that seemed to crawl beneath the skin.
The company froze mid-motion. Bread half-chewed slipped from open mouths, cards fell from startled fingers, boots half-laced were left dangling. Even the horses, weary from the long road, jerked their heads up and snorted clouds of steam, hooves stamping nervously at the ground.
For a moment no one breathed. Then, as if tugged by an invisible thread, every face turned toward the wall of trees, toward that pale, endless curtain of fog where shapes shifted and shadows pooled.
Another horn answered. Deeper. Closer.
The sound rolled through the grove like thunder muffled in cloth, shaking droplets loose from the black branches above.
