Without another word, Darian moved past her, following the invisible trail with the skill of a master tracker. His boots crunched through the snow as he traced the source of the smell, leading them away from the main path and into a small clearing that had been hidden from view by a thick stand of evergreens.
What they found there would shock them to the core.
The clearing was perhaps thirty feet across, its floor carpeted with snow that had once been pristine white but was now stained deep red in precise, deliberate patterns.
At its centre lay the remains of what had once been a magnificent bison—one of the great beasts that roamed the plains beyond the forest's edge.
But this was no natural death, no simple predation by wolves or other creatures of the wild.
The beast's head had been severed with surgical precision and now hung suspended from the lowest branch of a massive oak tree, its dead eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.
The remainder of the carcass had been arranged with meticulous care, its body parts forming a perfect semicircle around the base of the tree.
The sight was horrific enough, but what made both warriors' blood run cold was the placement of the creature's limbs.
Each leg had been driven into the snow like stakes, positioned so that they pointed inward toward the centre of the semicircle.
The arrangement was unmistakable—a ritual circle, a focus for power both ancient and abhorrent.
Dark stains marked the snow where blood had been poured in intricate patterns, forming symbols that seemed to writhe and shift when viewed directly.
Darian felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he took in the scene.
In his years of service, he had encountered many horrors—demons, black witches, and worse things that served the Shadow.
But this spoke of something different, something that belonged to the realm of the Banished themselves.
"Fiends?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
The question was more a prayer than an inquiry, a desperate hope that what lay before them was the work of mere demons rather than something infinitely worse.
Morgana stepped closer to the ritual circle, her face a mask of controlled horror. She could feel the residual power that still clung to the site like a malignant presence and could sense the wrongness that had been woven into the very fabric of reality.
The Pattern itself seemed frayed here, twisted by forces that should not exist in the world of mortal men.
"Maybe," she said, her voice tight with barely controlled revulsion.
"But if so, they are fiends of a higher order than any we have encountered. This..." She gestured at the scene before them, her hand trembling slightly despite her iron self-control.
"This is the work of something that understands the deeper mysteries of the Shadow. Something that has studied the ways of power and found them wanting."
Darian's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles showed white beneath his leather gloves. The blade seemed to pulse with its own inner light, responding to the presence of evil as it had been forged to do.
"But why here?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Why in these woods, so close to the village?"
The question hung in the air between them like a curse.
Morgana turned slowly, her eyes scanning the treeline as if expecting to see shapes moving in the shadows.
The village of frostvale lay less than two miles to the south, its inhabitants going about their daily lives in blissful ignorance of the horror that had been unleashed so near their homes.
"Maybe the same reason as us," she said at last, her voice carrying a note of terrible understanding.
"I'm sure now; those three are residing in the village, and we have to get them before they do."
The implications of her words settled over them like a shroud.
If the Shadow had taken an interest in these woods, if it had established a foothold so close to innocent lives, then the danger was far greater than either had imagined.
The ritual circle before them was not an end but a beginning—the first step in some greater working that could threaten not just the village but the entire kingdom.
"We need to leave," Morgana said, her voice carrying the authority of a Coven witch accustomed to command.
"With them."
Darian nodded grimly, his warrior's instincts in complete agreement with her assessment. Whatever had created this abomination would not be content with a single ritual.
It would return, and when it did, the innocent would suffer for their proximity to evil.
"Your call," he said, the simple words carrying the weight of absolute trust.
In matters of the Shadow and its workings, he deferred to her expertise, just as she would defer to his in matters of sword and shield.
Together, they turned their backs on the horror in the clearing and began the long walk back to the village.
The snow continued to fall, slowly covering their tracks, but it could not erase the memory of what they had seen. The corruption that had taken root in Woods would not be so easily buried.