Too neatly.
He walked over. Snow crunched underfoot. The air didn't warm. If anything, it leaned colder now. He crouched beside the rock and brushed the frost off the top.
A mark.
Just one.
Scratched in. Rough. Sharp lines. Not carved with a tool.
A claw, maybe.
He traced it with his glove. Not a rune. Not a sigil.
Just a circle.
A broken one.
Lira appeared beside him.
She said nothing.
Because what was there to say?
Lindarion stood again. Dusting snow off his sleeves. Watching the trees like they might answer for this.
'Something got out. Something left. But not before leaving a very dramatic fire pit and an emotionally charged circle on a rock. Excellent.'
He looked at Lira.
She didn't blink.
"We should go back."
"Yeah," he said. "Let's do that before it circles back to finish its art project."
They turned, the snow crunching behind them in slow rhythm.
Neither of them spoke the rest of the way down. Not out of fear.
But because whatever had been there?
—
