As the sun bled low across the sky, it painted the bog's disturbed waters in bruised violets and molten gold.
Dimour trailed his father through the shallows, every sense straining. His gaze darted between each ripple and the hunched, lifeless trees. Deep in his skull, his mana sense prickled—a restless itch, like something ancient stirring in the wet soil beneath his feet.
"There."
Darius's gravel-rough voice sliced through the insect drone and the marsh's wet, breathing quiet. He crouched, thick fingers hovering just above the scarred bark without touching it.
"Claw marks. Curved. Waist-high."
A low pause.
"Crelins."
The name dropped like cold mud into Dimour's stomach. In his mind flashed a pair of huge, unblinking red eyes—and the terrified face of Jah, the caster who had stumbled half-dead onto the village outskirts only months ago. The pack had toyed with him—dragging it out, savoring the fear before the kill.
Darius rose slowly, eyes cutting through the thickening mist.
"Fresh. They're bolder than they should be this close to the village."