The sky above Varn's Hollow hung heavy with clouds—dark and motionless, like slabs of stone pressed together. There was no moonlight, no stars, only a sickly haze that dulled even the soft glow of the mana-lights clinging to the cliffside moss.
The wind didn't whistle. It growled.
It funneled through narrow gaps between stone ridges, tugging at Noel's cloak with dry, dusty hands. The air stank of wet earth, mana residue, and the faint copper sting of dried blood.
He stood at the bottom of a narrow gorge—twenty meters across, maybe five deep, with slanted walls that climbed up like jagged teeth. One of the more isolated spots in the Hollow. No monsters here tonight. Just rock, dust, and the smell of old violence.
Perfect.
Noel stepped out of his cloak, letting it fall over a flat slab of stone behind him. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, loosening the stiffness in his spine.
The cold bit into him immediately, wrapping around his skin like a warning. He didn't care.
