The descent began in a hush that felt deliberate, as if the ravine itself were listening.
Water bled from cracks high above and fell in patient drops that clicked against stone, the sound rippling forward and back until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Torchlight wobbled over slick walls and then vanished into seams of darkness where the flame could not follow.
Captain Voln lifted his torch higher and slowed the column with a clenched fist at shoulder height. He could hear the men behind him trying to quiet their kit: leather straps adjusted; scabbards pressed tight to thigh; the hollow rattle of a loose buckle stilled by a gloved hand.
On nights like this, discipline was a sound.
"Feels wrong, sir," one of the forwards murmured, voice barely more than breath. "Too quiet for a hunt."
"Quiet's better than screaming," another tried, and even that scrap of humour came out brittle.
