Chapter 482 - Dance of the Decoys (1)

Mist clung to the winding forest path like a living thing, thick ribbons twisting around moss-slick trunks before spilling into the ruts left by wagon wheels. A chill crept under every collar, and the damp air smelled of pine needles, wet loam, and the faint, coppery memory of battles already fought upstream. Hooves thudded softly in the sodden ground, sending up little splashes that patterned the fetlocks of the horses with flecks of gray mud. Even the banners—broad squares of midnight blue stitched with the silver hawk of Astellia—barely whispered. They hung heavy and damp, snapping only when a stray breeze stole through the pines.