They leave the mine before noon, but the sky is overcast and gray. Snow falls lightly, dusting the ground and trees. Gord leads the way north toward Falkensteig, the ruined path to the old castle.
They ascend at first, but then the trail is mostly downhill. The forest is dense here, with tall pines and oaks. Rothütle notices how quiet it is—no birdsong, no rustling of small animals. Just the crunch of their boots on the snowy path.
Rothütle stops once.
"Do you hear that?" he asks.
Gord listens. Nothing. Then—movement. Not a sound, but a shift. A darker line between trunks where there should be none.
"We are not alone," she says. "But the daylight keeps them at bay."
They continue toward Falkensteig. The path bends, rises, narrows. At times Rothütle feels certain he sees figures pacing them—always just beyond sight, always behind bark and mist.
"Do you trust this woman, Evie?" he asks Gord.
"No, but that's our only clue so far," she replies.
"Was she real?" Rothütle wonders aloud. "She looked out of place."
Gord shakes her head. "I don't know. Either way, it could be Angra's words coming out of her."
"Who's Angra?" he inquires.
Gord hesitates, disappointed in herself that she let her guard down. "Our prisoner."
"Our prisoner?" he asks. "Who else is with you?"
"You will meet them soon enough," Gord says curtly. "We're almost there."
Tip of the day. Perimeters fail quietly. You must watch the edges.