The night pulsed with something ancient, something watching. The wind carried more than the sting of ice—it whispered, breathed, wove unintelligible murmurs into the howling storm. Each gust was a voice too many to name, writhing at the edges of understanding. Markos's horse shied suddenly, muscles twitching, hooves skidding against the frozen ground. It was afraid. So was he.
He pressed a hand to its flank, whispering a prayer, though he was unsure if he spoke to the gods or merely to himself. The darkness beyond the trees thickened, layered upon itself, more than just night. It curled inward, swallowing depth, bending the landscape into something that shifted when he was not looking. Trees that should have been far loomed too near. The path behind twisted in ways it had not before.
