The return march was worse. Every step was heavier, as though the land sought to swallow them whole. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, stretching like claws across the ground.
The scouts spoke less now, their earlier mutters choked silent. The commander walked stiff at Lindarion's side, his jaw set. Only Nysha still looked outward, shadows stretched thin like webs across their path.
Halfway back, the youngest scout stumbled. His foot caught on something buried shallow in the ash. He cursed, dropping to his knees, and brushed at the dirt.
Not wood. Not stone. Bone.
The ash fell away to reveal a skull, jaw wrenched open in a silent scream. More brushing revealed another, then another, an entire pit of them, stacked and buried like refuse.
The boy reeled back, gagging. The others froze, fear sparking sharp.
Nysha's shadows recoiled violently. Her voice was a hiss. "This was not battle. This was harvest."
