Thorne's Warning

The mist, thicker than a shroud, clung to me, muffling the world. Each breath was a cold, damp kiss, smelling of pine needles and something ancient, something that made the hairs on my neck prickle. I’d been following the faint trail Silas had etched into the rock, a series of almost invisible scratches that only a father who knew his son, and this mountain, would leave. It led me higher, deeper into the white. The silence wasn’t empty; it hummed with a thousand unheard whispers, the breath of the mountain itself.

Then, the silence broke. A sound, sharp and unnatural, sliced through the fog. A twig snapping. Too heavy for a deer, too deliberate for a falling branch. I froze, my hand instinctively reaching for the worn grip of my Colt. My father’s locket, nestled against my chest beneath my shirt, felt suddenly warm, a phantom pulse against my skin.

“You shouldn’t be here, boy.”