The road from Stonehold was cloaked in silence.
Not by natural stillness, but by choice. The Mistshroud disciples marched in disciplined formation, carts laden with supplies, wounded resting atop wards of stabilization, and guards rotating on perimeter watch. Above them, low clouds boiled as if unsure whether to storm or weep.
Adrian sat atop the lead cart, cloak drawn around him, the soul-ring from the fallen Wraith resting in his palm. He'd spent the night unraveling its defenses. Every layer peeled back revealed deeper rot—maps marked with Dust Order sigils, transmission records, lists of bounties. But what chilled him wasn't the evidence of pursuit.
It was the names.
Names he recognized.
Disciples from Mistshroud, long thought lost in the siege.
One of them had reported Aurelia's vision to the Empire.
A traitor.
Adrian closed the ring and let it vanish into his sleeve.
