"Terrence." A thin hiss through Dag's teeth. "Did you hear that?"

The dark Courser turned, flashing the blue roan with a skeptical eye. "The battlements are crumbling. They never stop falling to pieces."

"No. That's not what I mean. Shh—there it is again!"

The high walls of the surrounding fortification cut through the light of ancient, ever-burning beacons like a silent knife, carving shadows of inky black into the lower bailey. Dag was careful not to shift his hooves on the echoing stone. Behind them, a scratch. A scuffle. His dark mane fell over his eyes as he turned his head back, searching for the culprit and finding nothing. The stillness that swooped back in was nearly unnatural, especially following harrowing hours mucking across the sodden battlefield out front, laying skeletal soldiers back to rest. He still had bonemeal between his molars, gritty and absorptive. He had expected the fortress to be much the same: teeming with restless spirits. Haunted by action.

The quiet was somehow worse.

"Grindhouse and Triomphe are waiting for us," Terrence said. "You're wasting time."

Dag didn't appreciate the reminder.

Terrence was a black shape among the shadows that Dag followed sullenly, winding the long way round to the west, up stagnant stairs, and under a towering black door. They rose to the upper bailey before Dag heard it again—scraping. Scuffling. A shadow bending in his peripheral vision like a flag. Even Lizard had heard it, tighting the grip of his little claws in Dag's mane.

"I swear it. Something is back there. Following us."

Terrence leveled him with another long look. "Something is always following in the Moors. This is one you can't banish, or fight. Coursers have gone mad trying to turn fast enough to see it." The disdain that dripped from his tongue was enough for Dag to taste. Terrence was daring him to be stupid enough. Challenging him to be the fool; to deserve being left behind.

Dag set his teeth firm.

"Keep going," he said.

He didn't look back.