By midmorning, the woods began to thin. The shadowed hallways of packed cedar and pine gave way to a wide expanse of rocky prairie. Clumps of coniferous trees jutted here and there from snow-covered knolls, and the skeletal arms of bare oaks clawed at the overcast sky. Underfoot, patches of frostbitten grass crunched beneath boots, and the wind cut across the flatland in slow, whispering gusts. Cairvish adjusted his cloak against the cold, his eyes sweeping the horizon.
"We'll be exposed out here," he muttered, casting a glance back toward the vanishing treeline.
Krashina grunted in agreement. "Still better than the underbelly."
Nixor, walking with the ease of a man who knew where every hidden knife lay on his person, stopped beside a cluster of rocks and squinted ahead. "We're not alone. Tracks, a lot of them. Recently made."
The party gathered around. Dozens of footprints marred the frozen mud, some deep and heavy as if made by men in armor, others shallower, fainter. Hoofprints, too. Snow had fallen since, dusting the evidence, but enough remained to stir unease.
Grey knelt, fingers brushing the frozen ground. "Southward, along the river." He pointed. "And more heading north."
A bend in the land revealed the river again, winding westward. Its dark, half-frozen waters gurgled beneath a thin layer of ice. Above it loomed a jagged bluff crowned by a weather-worn bridge. The road, now little more than two rutted lanes of packed earth and snow, crossed there.
Crows circled in the air.
"Something's happened," Krashina said, squinting up at the bridge. "See the black wings?"
As they crept closer, caution bled into tension. The bridge's silhouette grew, and with it came the shape of chaos. Overturned wagons, broken crates, scattered goods half-buried in snow. Wooden wheels splintered, canvas torn, crates smashed open with their contents strewn across the frozen road. A cracked sign swung lazily in the wind from the nearest wagon.
Grey stepped forward to read it. "Lady Syboril's Mercantile." The letters were painted in faded gold, though a large gouge through the center marred the name—a deep chop from a heavy blade.
Krashina walked around the wreckage, eyes scanning the area. Her boots crunched through dried blood turned black by the cold. "No bodies."
"No bodies means one of two things," Nixor said. "Someone survived and fled. Or something took them."
Cairvish crouched beside a set of tracks leading into the trees. "Drag marks."
Grey stood silently for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in. "Whatever happened, it wasn't long ago. There are fragments of shattered glass still catching light. Wine or oil, I think."
"And the crows know," Krashina added, pointing to the murder of birds picking at something deeper in the brush.
The party spread out slightly, checking the surrounding area with wary eyes. Krashina found the remnants of a satchel: dried blood crusted along the seams, a ripped ledger still frozen inside. Grey uncovered a discarded cloak stiff with frost, still shaped vaguely as if someone had fallen in it. Nixor picked through a scattered crate of preserved fruit, none of it edible now.
"The attack was brutal," Cairvish said, returning to the group. "Quick. No sign of ranged fire, but the blood suggests bladed weapons. Heavy ones."
Krashina tilted her head. "Goblins wouldn't have left the goods. And ogres would have smashed the bridge, not just the wagons."
Grey looked out across the river. "Whatever it was, it had purpose. This wasn't just banditry."
Nixor clicked his tongue. "What are we debating here? Do we play heroes, follow the tracks, and die for a bunch of strangers, or do we stick to the mission?"
Krashina rounded on him, her fists clenched. "That 'mission' was handed to us by a madman. Who's to say this ambush wasn't his doing?"
Grey interjected calmly. "If the Baron wanted us dead, there are easier ways than leading us into the woods."
Cairvish shook his head. "He wants us to find the Black Spore. That much is true. But if the Spore is responsible for stirring up the monsters, we might be seeing his handiwork right here."
They stood in silence a moment, the wind rustling through the bluffs. The crows croaked again, flying from tree to tree.
"There's a trail in the snow leading away from the wagons," Krashina said, gesturing with her chin. "Could be survivors. Could be raiders."
Nixor exhaled. "And either way, they're not our problem."
Cairvish met his gaze. "You're right. They're not. But they might lead us to whoever or whatever did this."
"Or they'll lead us to our deaths," Nixor muttered.
Grey looked to the bridge. "Morin's Stand is less than a day's walk now. If there are wounded survivors, they won't last the night out here."
A long silence fell over the group.
Then Krashina spoke. "We have swords now. Fire. Food. If this is the work of monsters, we may need to face worse ahead. We should know what we're dealing with."
Cairvish nodded. "We follow the tracks. At least until we find something. Then we decide."
Nixor threw up his hands. "Fine. But if I get eaten by a troll, I'm haunting all of you."
Grey chuckled softly, and they set off, leaving the bridge and wreckage behind, their boots crunching through the snowy trail where blood and broken crates told a story no one had survived to finish.
The prairie wind followed.