The dawn mist clung to Sylvie's cloak like a shroud as she and Thorne crouched at the lip of Blackfang Gorge. Below them, the canyon yawned into shadow, its walls lined with ancient stone spires and fissures that echoed the wind's mournful sigh. Lark fumbled with his pack behind them, his breath billowing in soft clouds.
“Are you sure about this?" Lark whispered, glancing at Thorne's gaunt face.
Thorne's jaw was set. “The next shard lies in the spirit corridors, beneath the Gorge's heart. If we don't retrieve it now, Asha's patrols will sweep it clean."
Sylvie swallowed. Beneath her palms, the percussion of distant wind carried a low, accusing tone—wolf spirits bound in grief. She clenched the obsidian shard in her pocket. “I hear them," she said quietly. “They're restless."
Lark gave
