The morning sun spilled through the half-repaired shutters of the village hall, painting stripes of golden light over the wooden floor where Inigo and Lyra sat sharing a simple breakfast with the village elder and two of the more able-bodied hunters. The scent of smoked meat and herbs filled the air, but Inigo barely tasted it—his mind was already on the mission ahead.
"You're sure they came from the east?" he asked, placing a half-eaten loaf back on his tin plate.
The older man nodded. "Aye. We've lost cattle and scouts to that side for over two weeks now. The woods get thicker there, and the old hills rise. There's a ravine—deep and narrow. That's where we think the nest is. No one dares go too close."
"No one needs to," Inigo replied. "Just give us the coordinates as close as you remember."
