The road narrowed again.
A trail of churned mud and black leaves wound through the darkwood trees, veering toward the east. No one spoke as they rode. The villagers walked with heads bowed, carts rattling over roots and sunken stone. The children no longer asked questions. Even the youngest seemed to understand that something old and watching had begun to walk beside them.
Gorehill waited beyond the next ridge.
But even from here, the air stank of it.
It wasn't rot—not entirely. It was damp earth, scorched cloth, blood turned bitter in the wind. The kind of smell that came only when graves were too shallow, and time refused to move on.
Elena fell into pace beside Leon. Her voice was quiet. "You said the third seal was broken."
"It didn't break clean. Something clawed through."
She nodded, eyes narrowing on the dark ahead. "Then Gorehill isn't cursed. It's infected."
They crested the ridge just as light began to bleed into the sky—grey, pale, but light nonetheless.
