The land began to slope downward again.
Lindarion pulled the scarf higher across his mouth, shielding what little warmth he had left. His boots dragged through the crust of snow, each step stealing more from him than the one before.
His side burned with a slow, festering ache.
Too cold to bleed properly.
Too stubborn to heal.
He leaned forward against the wind, body hunched, head low. Moving became mechanical. Habit layered over exhaustion.
Somewhere ahead—
A change.
Not in the snow.
Not in the trees.
In the air.
He slowed, instincts prickling sharp under the numbness.
He could smell it.
Smoke.
Thin, woodsmoke curling faint against the iron of the winter sky.
He lifted his head, squinting through the broken veil of frost.
There.
Far on the horizon.
Barely a smudge.
Grey smoke rising against the clouds.
'Civilization,' he thought. 'Or something close enough to pass for it.'
The realization barely sparked anything inside him.
No surge of hope.
No relief.
