The village elder, a frail man with a back bent by age and burden, guided them through the ruined outskirts. His breath was ragged, his voice a soft rasp against the wind. "They come at night," he murmured, his fingers trembling as they pointed toward the remains of a barn. "Not animals. Not bandits. Something else."
Kael squinted through the mist, his gaze landing on deep claw marks gouged into the wooden beams. Not just scratches—gashes. He swallowed hard. "Liora?"