The hand that rose from the snow was long-fingered, gray-skinned, its nails blackened by frost. It did not claw or lunge. Instead, it emerged slowly, palm open and fingers spread, as though whatever lay beneath was making a deliberate effort not to appear threatening.
Ludwig kept Durandal raised regardless.
The snow around the camp remained undisturbed. There were no ripples, no shifting shapes, only the wind dragging thin lines across the surface and the lingering sense that something had been there long before they arrived.
Redd's nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. "Not rot," he muttered, correcting himself. "Old fur. Wet stone. Blood, maybe. Hard to tell."
"That is comforting," Tull said dryly, aura already coating his body again. "I prefer when hidden things smell normal."
"No hidden thing smells normal," Cain replied.
"Again, not helping."
