The moment shadows swallowed me, I slammed my back against a crooked oak. Feverish heat scorched across my face, and my frenzied pulse made each draw of breath tight and ragged.

Gods.

All gods.

I’d done it.

I peered around the trunk of the tree slow like a rusted hinge, and studied the camp. No alarms were sounded, no blades, no Sentry.

How long my good fortune would last was not a game I would risk losing. I ducked my head beneath the night mists and hurried in the direction of the sea.

Baldur’s camp couldn’t be too far, not if we were to enter Stonegate together.

The trouble was from this new angle, no golden beams of torches broke the mists. Truth be told, the darkness thickened. Deep black devoured any gleam of the cold moon, coating the forest in shadows I could taste.

Dammit.

The blood casts. I cursed under my breath. Part of me considered Stav Nightlark lied about the spells, but the deeper I went, the less direction I had.

Lanterns from the second camp were lost to the darkness, and Kael was lost to me.

I jolted at every flutter of wings, every snap of twigs in the distance. Twisted vines coated the soil in a cloak of serpentine knots, climbing my ankles like tethers looking to chain me down.

Turn around. I needed to turn around and return to my camp, but I could not make out from which direction I’d come.

Haunts possessed these trees. Tricks of the mind kept folk lost and helpless lest they knew the wood to their soul.

It was no wonder why Roark was the lead party—Dravens were feral people. Some of Jakobson’s servants told tales of how the people of Dravenmoor could speak to the souls buried in the soil to help guide their way.

A gust of wind battered my shoulders. I curled against it, but on my next step slipped down a dark slope, landing hard in a pile of brambles and dry leaves. I groaned, lifting my head. More pitch, more endless night mists.

Something damp and warm coated my arm. The sleeve of my dress was torn and the flesh split, blood dripping down my elbow.

Damn my reckless mind.

Damn my foolish plans.

Now, more than ever, I was lost in the trees, open prey for gnashing teeth and Draven arrows.

I did not know how long I traipsed through vines and hedges, but finally a glimmer of light burned through the haze of mists.

A torch.

Between two twisted, spindly aspen trees, the wood opened to a clearing.

The light was there, but it did not come from a torch or fire pit.

Light, like the faintest glimmer of dawn, skimmed across the soil. Tattered posts with ragged bits of canvas were arranged around a stone pit with scorched wood and an iron stoker still in place.

Another camp. One abandoned and left to rot.