Frieren trudged up the dew-wet road, boots sinking into the earth where old flagstones vanished beneath wild grass. Fern was already several paces ahead, staff in hand, eyes narrowed at the distant, mist-shrouded outline of the next village. Stark lagged behind, muttering to himself as he adjusted the straps of his axe. The morning was cold, breath fogging the air, and the only sound was the soft crunch of footsteps and the distant call of a crow. Frieren reached into her satchel, feeling the familiar edge of one of her battered grimoires, but let her hand fall. She watched Fern pause at the edge of the road, glance back, and sigh with an exasperation that needed no words. Stark caught up, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Shouldn’t we eat something before we reach town?"
he asked, voice low. Fern hesitated, then nodded. Frieren sat on the mossy remains of what might have been a mile marker, watching her companions set down their packs. Mist drifted through the silent statues lining the roadside, bronze faces turned forever toward the horizon. The air tasted of wet earth and memory.