They rode without pause.
Mist clung to the fields, creeping low along the grass like a crawling fog, as if trying to pull them back toward Gorehill. But Leon pushed them forward. South-east, past the old timber fences and rusting river mills, following the broken map etched into Tomas's memory. A place where the land bent unnaturally—a forgotten scar.
The site of the fourth seal.
By midday, the sun never rose. Only a grey veil stretched over the sky, thick enough to choke the horizon. Birds stopped singing. Even the horses breathed quieter, nostrils flared, hooves careful. The road twisted into forest.
The caravan slowed. Trees here weren't right. No leaves. No bark. Just black limbs—bone-thin and slick with a sheen that refused to reflect light. Elena glanced to her side and realised something worse.
No one remembered entering the woods.
She reined in her horse. "Leon. This isn't right."
