Running from the war trolls while adhering to the many rules of the mountains was exhausting. At times, they were forced to stop and leave offerings at shrines—macabre structures of skulls and bones draped in tattered red fabric. The air around them was thick with the scent of decay and something more—something wrong.
Scattered throughout the mountain paths were cryptic warnings, messages scrawled in a language long forgotten. Yet, the hardest challenge wasn't deciphering these signs.
It was stopping.
Stopping when something noticed them.
They didn't have a full picture of their surroundings, but they could hear. The rustling movements in the trees. The faint, eerie cries in the distance. And worst of all—the voices.
Familiar voices.
Damon clenched his fists as he ran, his breath coming in sharp bursts.
He had heard his mother call his name. Six times.
He had seen his little sister standing in the woods. Five times.