Sons of a devil

The path to Noril was no gentle climb. The mountains rose like jagged teeth against the sky, snow swirling down their slopes even though the valleys below still bloomed with autumn’s fire. By the second night, the cold gnawed through cloak and armor alike.

Cain led the group, silent as ever, but every so often his hand brushed the scroll in his satchel, as if he could feel its pulse even through the leather.

Ayden kicked loose rocks from the trail and muttered, "We could’ve stayed in Kiralyn a little longer. Maybe enjoyed a hot meal. A warm bed."

Lucien smirked. "You’d have enjoyed Corin’s company too much. Didn’t want to make it awkward."

"Shut up."

Rei’s voice cut through the banter. "Quiet. Something walks with us."

The wind howled as if answering her. And then the snow shifted.

From beneath the drifts, figures clawed upward—skeletal warriors wrapped in tattered cloth, their empty sockets burning with ghostfire. They moved not like shambling corpses but like trained killers.

Lucien’s grin sharpened. "Finally. I was getting bored."