At high noon, the skies were bright and cloudless, but Asher felt something stir.
It began with a breeze, gentle, almost playful, as it rustled through the Whitewood canopy overhead. He paid it no mind at first. But soon, that breeze grew stronger, and then stronger still, shifting from a whisper to a steady force, as though the very air was being drawn from one single, unnatural direction.
Ahead, the hill loomed, shaped like an eagle's beak, its steep ridgeline slicing into the sky. According to Kaelor, once they crested that hill, the Wolf King's den would be in plain sight. But whatever awaited them on the other side was not waiting patiently.
The wind howled louder, but still, it wasn't enough to stop the march. They pressed forward through the trees, their boots crunching fallen leaves, their armor clinking in rhythmic unison. The rustling of the Whitewood leaves above turned into frantic flutters, like a thousand tiny flags screaming a silent alarm.
