The journey through the Whispering Woods grew quieter the closer Adrian came to the base of the Falling Mist Ridge. The trees here were older, their bark blackened by time and spiritual erosion. The canopy overhead thickened, shrouding the path in an eternal twilight.
Storm trotted ahead, tail swaying lazily. He'd long since recovered his energy, though he stayed close to Adrian, ears twitching at the slightest shift in the air.
"Shouldn't be far now," Adrian murmured, glancing down at the map given to him by Daoist Nettle. A trail of spiritual runes marked their destination—Ashveil Village, a place hidden so thoroughly that even most cultivators overlooked it.
And that was precisely why Adrian had chosen it.
A gust of wind blew down from the ridge, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke.
Adrian froze.
Storm's ears perked up, and he growled softly.
