They reached the edge of the Dead Marches on the night the fifth moon began to rise.
The land here was wrong: black soil that drank water, trees twisted into screaming shapes, air thick with the smell of old graves. No birds sang. Even the wind sounded like weeping.
Star dismounted first, boots sinking into the soft earth. His birthmark had been burning since dawn, a steady throb that matched his heartbeat.
Elandor came to his side, hand on the small of his back.
"You feel it too," Star said. It wasn't a question.
"The pull," Elandor answered. "Like something's calling your name from under the ground."
Duchess Calera scanned the horizon, face grim. "The Cairn is three miles north. We camp here tonight. No fires."
Lila nodded, already unpacking bedrolls. Thorne stood apart, mask reflecting the dying light like a shard of ice.
