The door loomed ahead.
They were taller than Ryn remembered, probably because he was stuck in a kid's body, but the sheer grandness of it all never escaped him.
Outside.
The hunters gathered in a loose line near the entrance.
Most of them looked unwell.
Pale skin, sunken eyes, and slow movement. Some coughed quietly into their sleeves, others leaned too heavily on their spears. They wore layers and layers of protective cloth and hardened leather, charms tied around their wrists and necks, small talismans clinking softly whenever they took a step.
At the front stood the hunt leader—a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a scar running down one cheek. He moved stiffly as well, but seemed to be handling it better than the rest.
"We're not staying out long," he said, voice carrying easily. "But we're not coming back empty-handed either."
A few hunters straightened at that.
