Fog hung heavy over the land, where iron rules left a taste of rust on every tongue.
Footsteps slowed when the wind shifted, carrying something sharp through the trees. That first whiff hit Sage before Zion even twitched his ear. Every few hundred yards stood a marker soaked in smell - seven different groups had worked this ground. Their traces piled up like warnings left in plain air. Territory wasn't drawn here with stones or signs, but breath and gland and time. Crossing meant breathing someone else's history into your lungs. The deeper they went, the heavier it hung - a quiet shout stitched into silence.
Wolves usually head back the way they came.
Straight ahead moved Sage. Through the space she went without pause.
