They move as silently as the crows that circle mournfully overhead. The sense of melancholy has intensified with every step they take through the Moor; ancient sorrow suffocates them so slowly they barely realise. 

 

Their guide does not know why the battle was here, or even whether it was. The bones may be real, or the magic may have created them from an image so visceral it should never have been shown again. Their guide, with his iridescent coat and red eyes, is deeply affected by this place and it shows; his every step, his every hoarse whisper, is accompanied by a powerful respect for the dead and a healthy fear of the magic.

 

The one with the flaming coat has not stopped looking behind them. The mild panic he felt upon entering this arcane level has risen to a boil; their guide notices, and shuts it down. There is no place for blind fear here. It will get them killed. The smallest one presses up against him, and he takes comfort in his friend's presence. They have been through a lot together. They will get through this. The fox kit in his satchel is wriggling to be let down, but he does not think it is safe to let it.

 

The smallest one has become accustomed to the gloom. His natural cheery disposition has waned, but he is still the light that keeps them all from total despair. His hawk has refused to leave her perch, feathers puffed in discomfort. It is cold, and the crows have grown in number. The Courser find their silence disconcerting. Surely the crows aboveground are always making noise?

 

Their guide has never been so quiet. His cocky demeanour has all but evaporated, and he is staring at the space above them with a suspicious squint on his face. "Those aren't crows," he tells them as the flock descends to land on the bones of the dead.

 

He's right.