The forest seemed to close behind them, swallowing the trail as if it had never existed. The air, already heavy, thickened into something almost solid, saturated with contradictory scents: the sweetish rot of decaying vegetation, the musk of animals, and always, lingering in the background, that metallic sting that burned the nostrils. The trail they followed—branches snapped at shoulder height, deep hoofprints pressed into the mud—was too neat, too obvious.
Zirel felt a new tension coursing through his veins, replacing anticipation with vigilance at every step. It was too easy. Pilaf was no careless strategist. If he had left a trail this blatant, it was either a trap or a diversion. Or worse: a lure to draw them deeper into territory he no longer controlled.
