The outpost slept lightly.
Grim Hollow was never truly silent—there was always the distant hum of generators, the clank of patrol boots on steel grates, the faint whistle of cold northern winds sliding over barricades—but tonight the atmosphere felt… off.
Like a breath held too long.
Like something watching.
And in the dim belly of the supply hall, behind stacked crates of dried ration bars and chemical-preserved grain sacks, a man crouched in silence, his hands steady as he worked.
Larkin Oyesa, a medic, a reserve quartermaster, with quiet and unassuming features was the last man anyone would suspect of treason.
That was why he'd been chosen.
He unrolled the small strip of treated parchment he carried at all times, a thin rectangle that shimmered faintly under the dim lantern light. The moment he whispered, "Ink of dusk," the symbols carved into his palm glowed black, and a shadowy script snaked across the paper.
Not written. But grown from its edges.
