The path back home was rather treacherous.
Four days of walking through forests that grew progressively quieter, as though the land itself held its breath.
Four days of watching the treeline for threats that never materialized, of sleeping in shifts with weapons within reach, of wondering whether the ruins had simply been a tomb holding its breath, or whether something had truly begun to stir beneath those ancient stones.
Valen walked at the front, his hand brushing against bark whenever the path brought them close to trees.
He was listening but not with his ears, but with the thread of awareness that had become as natural to him as breathing.
The forest was not well. Something had changed in the days since they'd left Rootrest, some subtle wrongness that he couldn't name but couldn't ignore.
"The trees are afraid," he said quietly to Tessa on the second morning, when the others were still breaking camp behind them.
