The path back to the tower wound through broken fields. Crops lay rotting in their furrows, stalks curled black at the tips as if the soil itself had turned against them. Every step sank slightly into damp earth, the smell of mold rising with each shift of their boots.
Marrec trudged ahead, blade slung over his shoulder, muttering curses under his breath. Talia walked in the middle, her steps slower than before. Ashen kept to her side, though she tried to keep her distance. The silence between them was louder than words.
At the edge of the road, a scarecrow leaned sideways in its post. Its straw head sagged, and one arm dangled loose, handless. Ashen slowed, eyes narrowing. For just a breath, he thought he saw the spiral—etched faintly into the burlap sack of its face. When he blinked, it was gone.
"You saw it too," Talia whispered.
He hesitated. "Maybe."
Marrec turned, his scowl sharper than ever. "Don't start. We've got enough phantoms without you making more of them."
Before Ashen could reply, a sudden shriek cut across the fields. All three froze, heads snapping toward the sound. A figure stumbled out from the furrows—a woman, clothes torn, hair wild, clutching something tight to her chest. She staggered onto the road, gasping.
"They're still here," she cried, eyes darting wildly. "They don't stop, they don't—"
Her words choked as she lifted her bundle. It wasn't a child, as Ashen first thought, but a sack writhing with movement. Dozens of small, pale creatures spilled out as the cloth tore—ratlike, but eyeless, their bodies marked with faint spirals across their backs.
Talia staggered back, gagging. Marrec swore and reached for his blade.
The woman dropped to her knees, clutching at her hair, rocking. "They come from the ground… they come from the ground…"
Ashen's hand tightened on his staff. He didn't strike, not yet. He studied the rats as they scattered into the fields. They didn't attack. They only ran, vanishing into the fog creeping low across the furrows.
"She's lost," Marrec growled. "We leave her. We've wasted enough time already."
Talia's hand shot out, catching Ashen's sleeve. "No. We can't just—look at her."
Ashen met the woman's vacant eyes. Something in them gnawed at him. She wasn't just mad; she'd seen something. Maybe the same thing he had.
He knelt slightly, voice low. "The tower. Did you see the tower?"
Her gaze snapped to his, clarity flaring for just a heartbeat. Then she whispered, "It's not a tower. It's a mouth."
The words chilled him to the bone.
Marrec cursed again. "Enough riddles. If we don't keep moving, we'll end up like her."
The woman collapsed forward, face pressed into the mud, sobbing until her voice broke. Ashen stood slowly, his hand trembling as he adjusted the strap of his pack.
A mouth. Not a tower.
The road ahead stretched gray and endless, fog licking at its edges. And there, faint against the haze, the spire rose higher than before, as if it had crept closer while they weren't looking.
Ashen swallowed hard. "Forward," he said, though the word felt heavier than ever.
Talia nodded weakly. Marrec spat, but he didn't argue.
Together, they pressed on. The scarecrow leaned silently behind them, its sackcloth face turned just slightly toward their backs.