The night deepened.
Their breath no longer steamed in the air, for the cold was not of wind or weather—it was the kind that clung to one's bones, soaked into marrow, and made even the soul feel frostbitten.
The party stood atop a jagged outcrop of stone, half-shattered by time. Gnarled branches twisted below, skeletal and leafless, reaching skyward as if to claw at the mist. The valley exhaled softly—no breeze, only that low, endless whisper.
Below them, they came.
Not all were whole.
The first were lesser remnants—fragments of lives long since scattered. They drifted across the broken valley floor like mist given shape. Limbs were blurred, faces unfinished, eyes absent or misplaced. They wept, but no sound emerged, only the cold silence of regret made manifest. These were the Hollowed, and they meant no harm… unless touched. Unless disturbed.
