The silence didn't last.
It started with the soft scrape of boots across wet ground—barely audible, almost part of the wind. Then came the creak of old wood shifting. Somewhere beyond the collapsed buildings, something moved. Not fast. Not loud. Just there. Watching. Waiting.
Inside the ruined house, Inigo sat upright with his shotgun resting across his lap. He hadn't slept. Neither had Arienne, who sat cross-legged near the table, her hand hovering over the tracefinder. Its glow had intensified slightly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Korrik stood by the door with his axe drawn, peering through a crack in the wood. "They're not gone."
"No," Inigo said quietly. "Just hiding again."
The others gathered in silence. Lyra was nursing a scrape on her shoulder. Garen had a fresh dent in his pauldron but nothing serious. No one had died, but they all knew how close it was.
"Tracefinder?" Inigo asked.