The whistles began at dawn.
Not the shrill alarm whistles used for breaches. These were lower, longer—mourning sounds that carried through the frost-heavy corridors of Grim Hollow like the sighs of a wounded beast.
The outpost was being emptied.
And the fortress that once thrummed with life and endless marching boots now sounded like a graveyard exhaling.
Workers gathered in the central yard with packs slung over narrow shoulders. The fledglings—teen recruits barely three months into their training—clustered under the supervision of older handlers, their wide eyes darting across the familiar stone walls as though trying to memorize every crack before they were taken away.
Fires burned in metal drums to fight the creeping cold. The sky above Grim Hollow hung thick and gray, a lid of winter clouds sealing the world shut.
The evacuation had begun.
And the outpost felt wrong without the usual background hum of machinery and shouted orders. Too quiet. Too empty. Too final.
