Ludwig kept to a measured climb up the dark mountain. He didn't rush, didn't run, and didn't sprint, not because his legs couldn't, but because places like this punished speed with ambushes.
The fog above was thick enough to swallow silhouettes whole, and the trees were twisted into ugly angles that made shadows look like they were moving even when they weren't.
He didn't fear it, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
He kept Durandal low and ready, the blade's tip hovering near the ground without dragging, his eyes cutting from trunk to trunk and back to the narrow path where Gale's markings should have been.
The shadows kept moving at the mountain range. Not the soft shifting of leaves in wind, there was no wind here. This was a different kind of motion: a glide behind bark, a flicker that vanished the moment he tried to focus on it.
