The first thing Titania noticed was the campfire.
It flickered through the veil of low mist and tree limbs like a sentinel's eye, low but unwavering, casting a warm amber against the hollows of damp stone and the tangled net of gnarled roots that curled up like skeletal fingers from the forest floor. The air carried with it the faint tang of ash and charred meat burnt fat clinging to the breeze like memory. Somewhere nearby, water trickled faintly, a tiny stream burbling unseen beyond the ridge, and above them, the canopy hung heavy with dew.
The fire sat nestled in a bend along the old trail, half-shielded by stone and earth, almost defensive in its placement. There was precision in its setup: cloaks draped to dry over the arch of a low branch, angled just so to catch residual heat; a single boot placed near the coals, toe pointed outward, as if its owner had been lounging there only moments ago.
