He rested a moment longer beneath the tree, listening to the night. No cries. No hunters. Only the soft rustle of branches and the faint rhythm of his own breath. When the wind shifted, it carried with it the faintest trace of ash—remnants from the sanctum still burning behind him.
Asher closed the ledger and slid it back into his cloak. His hand lingered on the cover, not with hesitation, but with quiet certainty. The path was already decided.
The east.
He rose smoothly, taking up the scythe once more. The weapon's edge caught the pale light, glimmering with faint crimson where his blood still lingered on it. He let it rest across his shoulder and stepped back onto the road. His stride remained the same—unhurried, measured, calm.
The Maw-Touched Herald would be waiting at the other end of this trail, surrounded by zealots who thought themselves chosen. To them, the Maw's whispers were a gift. To Asher, they were just noise.
