The Pathseers do not follow roads.
They follow disturbance.
The first one is seen at dusk, standing at the edge of an unlit valley where the world’s lines do not quite agree on themselves anymore. No shrine-glow. No corridor shimmer. Just a human-shaped figure in ash-gray wrappings, head tilted as if listening to a sound only the wrong parts of reality make.
Wolves refuse to cross its shadow.
Birds drop silent from the wind.
And somewhere far beyond Blackthorne, a child in the Unplaced City wakes up screaming for a reason she cannot name.
“They’re close,” Myra breathes as the report arrives through three broken channels at once.
Kael’s jaw tightens.
“They’re not tracking routes.”
“No,” I whisper. “They’re tracking where the story hurts.”
The shadow stirs, cold and wary.
Predator
