The priest's blood spattered across the stones near the old watchpost, thick and sudden.
Cael stood a few feet away, tense. Ravik crouched beside the man, nose twitching.
"Still breathing," Ravik muttered. "Barely."
"Think he's drunk?"
"Drunk on what? Holy water?"
Cael shook his head slowly. "He looked fine during the ritual."
"Yeah. So did your cooking once."
Cael glanced sideways. "I ever make you dinner?"
"No," Ravik said, standing up. "And I thank the gods daily for that mercy."
They started walking, footsteps echoing off the cobblestone. Ravik glanced back once.
"You saw his eyes," he said. "Like he forgot how blinking worked."
"I've looked worse."
"You smell worse."
They passed a food stall and a pair of traveling guards. One of them coughed into his arm, brow furrowed. A priest brushed by them on the road, robes soaked in sweat despite the evening chill.
Ravik narrowed his eyes, ears twitching.
"Something's off," he said.
Cael didn't argue this time. "You've been saying that all day."
"And I'll keep saying it until something bites me in the face."
They stopped at the tavern steps. Light and laughter leaked out from the windows. Someone inside was already singing off-key.
Ravik turned toward the alley beside the inn.
"I'm going to find the rest of the crew. We split up earlier before I found your sorry face."
"You sure you're not ditching me because I drink too slow?"
"That, and you've been glaring at beer like it owes you money."
Cael smirked. "Maybe it does."
"I'll meet you later," Ravik said. "If my crew hasn't passed out in a gutter or started a small war."
"You remember where they said they'd be?"
"I've got a nose. You've got a chair. Stay in it."
With a parting wave, Ravik vanished into the narrow path between buildings.
Cael watched him go, then turned and entered the tavern.
The air inside was thick with smoke and warm ale. Not crowded, but not empty either. Familiar faces sat hunched over drinks or murmuring in low tones. Mages, mercenaries, guards—nothing unusual at first glance.
Cael took his usual seat near the back. The tavern girl brought him a mug without asking.
He took a slow drink and scanned the room.
At first, it felt like any other day. But the longer he sat, the more it scraped at him.
A soldier near the door wiped sweat from his neck and kept fidgeting. His armor wasn't heavy enough to cause that. Another man, maybe a scout, blinked slowly like he hadn't slept in a week.
Three mages sat together a few tables over. All three were coughing—not violently, but consistently. One of them dropped his tankard and didn't notice for a full five seconds.
Cael frowned.
It was too quiet between the noise. A rhythm off by just enough to notice.
He glanced at the hearth. The Aetherstone still glowed, calm and steady.
So why did it feel like the walls were holding their breath?
Ravik moved through the dim alleys behind the upper district. The village buzz faded behind him. Stone walls closed in, and the smell of woodsmoke and damp fur filled the tight paths.
He checked a few usual spots—behind the storage yards, near the outer chapel, and the side lot behind the stables—but no sign of them.
His crew wasn't here.
Not the bearkin. Not the two wolfkin. Not even the foxkin, who was always the first to be found when mischief was involved.
Ravik paused, listening.
He caught coughing in the distance—priests again, or mages. One of them was snapping at a boy over something trivial, voice raised, tone sharp.
Everywhere he looked, someone was twitching, sweating, or looking too hard at nothing.
And yet no one said anything.
They all acted like it was normal.
Ravik didn't like normal.
His instincts clawed at the back of his mind.
Something was wrong.
And he was starting to think it wasn't just him who felt it.