The Moor of Sleep clung to the edges of the world like a forgotten memory, mist-bathed and death-haunted. The ground, soft and treacherous, seemed to sink with every step, grasping, pulling, squelching. Decay and stagnant water hung heavy in the air, an oppressive blanket that muffled all but the sound of Castalla’s breathing and the sickening, wet, sucking sound of the boggy grass. Swirling and shifting, the fog obscured the way forward, distorting the ragged trees, bleached bushes and haunting remains that littered the landscape.

Beside her, Logue’s steps were steady, unhurried, his eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and wariness. Were unease not creeping, crawling, clawing up her spine, Castalla might have stopped to watch him, the way he seemed in awe of the barren dungeon they’d wandered into. But in a place like this, all she could manage was a small smile and a sidelong glance, loath to tear her focus from the perilous fields around them. All the same, his grounded, unpretentious nature was a breath of fresh air in a stagnant place like this. However, Logue’s steady presence wasn’t enough to chase away the apprehension that prickled at her skin.

They were not alone.

 A faint rustle, like the whisper of dead leaves brushing over stone, permeated the veil of silence, so quiet that at first Castalla had thought she was hearing things. Each time she pricked her ears, each time she turned her head and listened, there was nothing. But then it would sound again, dogging their steps with an unwelcome, eerie persistence. She would try to catch a glimpse, try to peer warily through the ghostly fog but the shadows seemed to hold their breath as if mocking her vigilance. There was nothing to see but the endless mist sweeping over an ancient battlefield.

Yet her instincts, honed by years of training, battle and survival, screamed persistently at her, not letting her relax for even a moment. Perhaps it was the Moor itself, alive in its own way and watching, pressing in, waiting for her to falter.

Logue, oblivious to the tension thrumming like a harp string, seemed at ease, as though he’d accepted the Moor’s otherworldly atmosphere without question. Or perhaps it was merely a front and beneath the calm façade his own heart was beating the same staccato as hers.

“Please tell me you hear that?” Her voice was low, taut, a soft breath in the still air.

Head tilted, steps faltering, Logue paused and listened. “Probably just the wind, this place is known for playing tricks.”

A frown pulled at Castalla’s pale features, for she was not entirely convinced. As though it were toying with her, the sound had stopped the moment she spoke, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was lurking just beyond the edge of perception, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Stay sharp, I don't think we're alone." 

Logue regarded her, expression neutral, but nodded his head all the same and they pressed on a little quicker, keen to finish their exploration and depart this dungeon of whispering death.