The rain started just before dawn, carried in by a wind that rattled through the grasslands and hissed across the canvas of the tents. It wasn’t the heavy, drumming downpour of the forest storms they’d left behind, but a persistent, needling drizzle that worked its way into seams, clothing, and tempers alike. Each drop seemed to hang in the air for a heartbeat before landing, so that even standing still felt like being slowly painted with cold.

  By unspoken agreement, the expedition didn’t move that day. Even Sinclair didn’t press for it; the ground was slick, the wagons would bog, and the cargo beasts needed rest after the week’s steady march. Their hooves had chewed deep ruts into the softer patches of soil the day before, and forcing them on now would only risk injury. Instead, the expedition sprawled over a shallow rise, tents pitched in a loose half-circle against the wind. The damp grass around camp was already trampled flat, darkening in uneven patches where water pooled.

  Ren woke to the smell of wet earth and the faint scent of smoke from a stubborn campfire someone had coaxed into life. The air inside his tent was heavy, thick with the breath-warm damp of two people sleeping in close quarters. His bedroll was damp where the corner of the tent flap hadn’t been tied tight enough, and his shoulder ached from the awkward angle he’d slept in. A faint trickle of water dripped along the tent seam, tapping intermittently into a shallow dent in the groundsheet.

  “Morning,” Leo mumbled from his own bedroll, hair sticking up at strange angles as if it had tried to escape his head in the night. He didn’t sound like he meant it.

  Ren grunted back and pulled on his coat, the canvas stiff from old stains and newer rain.

  Outside, the camp looked washed of color—the grass a muted green, the sky a smear of grey. Even the leather straps on the wagons seemed dulled by the damp. Perrin sat under the overhang of a wagon, fiddling with a strip of leather, and nodded as Ren passed. The young man looked better than he had in days; the drawn, pale look was fading, and his movements had regained a little of their old steadiness. The deep shadows under his eyes hadn’t fully vanished, but at least he no longer looked like he was walking in his sleep.

  For the most part, people kept to themselves. A few cleaned weapons with slow, methodical movements; others mended gear, their needles flashing briefly before being swallowed again by the grey light. The cargo beasts were tethered further down the slope, their large, patient shapes barely moving except to flick ears at the wind. Steam drifted faintly from their nostrils when they exhaled, a reminder of their warmth in the damp chill.

  Ren busied himself with food. Not a full meal—no one wanted the weight of a feast on a day like this—but a warming stew with the last of the root vegetables and a little dried meat. He worked in silence, letting the knife’s rhythm and the soft bubble of the pot anchor him, the scent slowly pushing back against the wet smell of rain and mud.

  It was Leo who broke the quiet, settling beside him with two cups of bitter tea.

  “You slept badly.”

  Ren looked up. “So did you.”

  “Yeah. Feels like the air’s pressing in.” Leo stared at the rain. “Dreams?”

  Ren hesitated, then nodded. “Couldn’t tell if it was the forest again or… something else.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He didn’t describe it—the dark corridors, the skittering, the sense of being watched. Too close to memory. Too vague to share.

  Leo didn’t press. Around them, snatches of conversation suggested they weren’t the only ones. A pair of scouts spoke in low tones about “that same damn buzzing” they’d heard in their sleep. One of the shield-bearers rubbed at his temple as if trying to scrub away the memory of something.

  By midday, the drizzle had turned to thin sheets of rain, sweeping across the camp in sudden gusts. Ren moved the stewpot to the lee side of a wagon, shielding it from the wind. The smell drew people one by one, bowls in hand, until the pot was scraped clean. No one lingered long after eating.

  The dreams seemed to have left a mark the rain couldn’t wash away. People moved slower, shoulders hunched, eyes glancing toward the open plains as if expecting something to rise from the horizon. Even Sinclair’s voice, when he called for a brief afternoon check-in, was quieter than usual—though no less firm.

  “Bad weather, bad rest,” he said, looking over the small group of twenty. “Don’t let it get in your head. We’ve got another five days before we reach the foothills, and I don’t want anyone dragging their feet when the ground starts climbing.”

  A murmur of acknowledgment passed through the group. Ren noted how Sinclair’s gaze lingered on the quieter faces—Perrin, the two young archers, the shield-bearer who’d barely touched his food.

  The rest of the day blurred into a muted rhythm: checking gear, tightening straps, shifting supplies so they wouldn’t soak through. The rain came in fits, easing for an hour before returning in sharp bursts. At one point, Ren sat under a wagon’s edge with Leo and Perrin, sharing a flask of something hot that Leo had smuggled into his pack weeks ago.

  “Better than tea,” Perrin muttered, coughing once as it burned down. “Not by much, but still.”

  Evening came early under the thick clouds. The campfires burned low, more for light than warmth, and most turned in soon after dark. Ren lay in his bedroll, listening to the soft patter of rain against canvas and the muffled creak of wagon wheels settling. Somewhere, a rope strained against its knot in the wind with a quiet, rhythmic groan.

  Sleep came, but not kindly.

  He dreamed of the forest again—but not the one they’d left. This one was wider, stranger, the trees bent at wrong angles, roots twisting into shapes that suggested faces. The skittering was louder here, and when he turned toward it, he saw a shadow dart between trunks.

  He moved toward it without meaning to. The forest thinned into a clearing, and in the center was a nest—no, a pit—lined with the same black chitin they’d seen on the monsters. Only this time, the walls rose higher than the trees, curving inward as if to keep something from climbing out.

  Something moved inside, and the ground shivered beneath him.

  Ren woke with a start, heart hammering. The tent was dark, Leo’s sleeping form unmoving beside him, rain still falling steady. He lay back, forcing his breathing to slow.

  By the time grey light seeped through the seams, the rain had thinned again. People emerged slowly. Some looked more rested. Others, like Ren, did not.

  He was packing his kit when one of the forward scouts came jogging back into camp, coat slick with rain, expression cutting through the morning haze.

  “There’s something ahead,” she called, loud enough for Sinclair to hear. “Two miles, maybe less. Looks like an outpost.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “Outpost?” Sinclair’s tone sharpened. “There’s nothing marked on the maps until the plains end.”

  “I know,” the scout said. “But it’s there. Small—couple of towers, maybe a wall. Smoke from a chimney. No movement I could see from a distance.”

  The camp seemed to lean toward her words. Perrin adjusted his belt. Leo was already pushing his glasses up, muttering distances under his breath.

  Ren glanced toward the low grey horizon, where the rain blurred the land.

  If there was an outpost there, it had been hidden well—until now.

  And whatever it was, it hadn’t been on any of their charts.