Mist clung to the highland trail like a living thing. The group of six moved quietly between stones etched with lichen and forgotten glyphs. Their palms glowed faintly, the sparks Hei Long had pressed into them at the quay warm against the cold mountain air.
At their head walked Shuang, a fisherman turned pathfinder. He had never left the coast before, but now he bore a spark the colour of sea-light cupped in his calloused hand. Behind him trailed a pair of Guards, a highland apprentice with wind-call in her breath, and two children who had begged to be taken as runners.
Each time they stopped, Shuang pressed his spark to stone. The light bled into it, leaving behind a faint pattern — a heartbeat, a waymark. The wind around them shifted, tugging the mist away from their path.
"They'll follow the marks?" one of the Guards asked quietly.
"They'll feel them," the apprentice murmured. "Like a hearth calling."
