The morning began quietly—too quietly for Damien's liking. Mist clung to the undergrowth, soft and silver, turning the forest floor into a shifting ocean of fog.
Dew glistened on every branch. The air smelled faintly of moss and wild mint, but beneath that freshness lurked the same unease that had followed him since the northern gate.
The travelers—two women, two men, and three children—moved cautiously behind him. None spoke much.
The mercenary, now recovered from Damien's accidental beating the previous night, kept to the front of the group, a short sword strapped to his back and a faint limp in his step. He'd insisted he could lead them, having crossed these woods before. Damien didn't argue.
He preferred staying at the rear, his senses spread wide, listening for anything that didn't belong—the faint scratch of claws on bark, the hum of unstable essence, or the subtle rustle of a predator stalking its prey.
