He found himself standing on a ridge overlooking a village. The air was thin and cold. Frost clung to the dead grass at his feet. He recognized the place from the ledger. A cluster of stone houses with thatched roofs. A well in the center of the square. A small chapel with a broken bell tower. The village from the entries. The place where the girl had been taken.
He still dreaming. He could see everything and nothing could see him. His hands were transparent. His feet did not disturb the frost. He took a step and felt nothing. No crunch of frozen earth. No resistance.
The village was alive with activity. Torches burned in iron brackets. Men moved through the streets with purpose. They carried rope and iron bars. They carried wooden stakes and hammers. Their breath plumed in the cold air. Their voices carried up the slope.
"She's not coming back," one man said. "She's dead. Or worse. The chief and his men took her."
