Mornings were always quiet on the island. Strangely quiet.

Calix had never been able to decide if it was the mist, or something about the trees. If the land itself was simply content in its early morning silence. He lay wrapped in his cloak and blankets beside the low fire for a moment longer, letting his eyes scan the surrounding trees before he sat up, rolling his neck to the side to work out the kinks.

They had only stayed a single night at the harbor fort before starting out the next day, riding hard for Thurius, a northern garrison town where the Seventh was currently being mustered. The fort's commandant had told them over dinner the night of their arrival that the Second and the Sixth had also been moved near Thurius, abandoning the fight for Grana at the moment. 

While Calix had been pleased by the increased chances of finding Arcturus, that was where the good news had ended. According to the commandant, casualties had become too high to be considered acceptable in the past few weeks.

Calix got to his feet, shivering despite the fact that he'd slept fully clothed, wrapped in his jacket and cloak. He nodded toward the sentry standing watch before he made his way toward the trees, nudging Tarquin's shoulder with his boot along the way.

The Sorveti soldier groaned and rolled over, burrowing into his blankets. Calix scowled against the cold as he unwrapped himself enough to take a piss, the rest of the camp beginning to stir behind him. He finished as quickly as he could before hurrying back to the fire where those who had woken were gathering.

Tarquin was still asleep. He had always been a miserable bastard in the morning.

One of the soldiers handed Calix a skin of water along with a hard biscuit and bit of cheese. He rinsed his mouth, spitting to the side before he crouched beside the fire, which had been built up a little higher. After he ate the meager breakfast, listening to the quiet complaining and banter between the men, he stood and walked over to Tarquin.

He stared at his friend for a brief moment, debating, then reached down and snatched the blankets up, jerking them away. Tarquin went rolling across the frost-covered grass, swearing filthily. Calix took a few steps out of swinging distance as Tarquin lurched to his feet, his eyes wild, his hand groping toward the knife at his belt.

Laughter rang through the clearing as Tarquin glared at Calix, shivering in the cold. With a baleful look he stalked back toward the fire, checking Calix with his shoulder in retaliation. Calix just grinned, taking a quick swig of water before he handed the skin over to his brother, who accepted it grudgingly.

Then he turned to the patrol's lieutenant, a good-natured man with light brown eyes and sandy-brown hair. "How much farther, do you think?"

Calix had never traveled this way before. All the campaigning he'd done in Brunia had been farther to the east.

The lieutenant glanced up at the sky, taking in the pearly sheen of low clouds. A cold breeze sighed through the pine boughs, nipping at Calix's nose and ears. They probably had until midday before it started to snow, if they were lucky.

"If we ride hard today, we should reach the encampment by nightfall, sir," the lieutenant finally answered. "It's only another forty miles or so."

He didn't need to add that would only happen if they managed to avoid any trouble the rest of the way. Calix crouched down, extending his already freezing hands toward the fire. Forty miles was doable, but they'd probably still be traveling by the time darkness fell.

That wasn't the brightest of ideas.

Although, Calix supposed they could just as easily be ambushed and killed if they risked any more time so isolated. He looked up, eyes thoughtlessly scanning for movement in the trees before he glanced at Tarquin. His brother raised a single shoulder before nodding toward where the horses had been picketed.

Better to risk traveling after dark.

Calix stood, wincing as his knees popped. "Get packed up and the horses saddled, we leave in five minutes."

The camp was instantly a well-organized scramble as the soldiers prepared to leave, eager to be on their way. After two long days of riding through this ageless forest, they all wanted to be back within the safety of a Metian camp. Bedrolls and blankets were packed, horses saddled, water skins refilled from a nearby creek that had a filigree of ice at its edges. The fire was extinguished and breakfasts hastily scarfed down.

Then Calix led Nox to the middle of the clearing. An expectant silence settled over the men, who all leaned forward in their saddles eagerly. 

The stallion was still angry about his time on a ship.

Calix narrowed his eyes at the horse, who flattened his ears in response. He didn't move except to crane his head to watch as Calix went around to his side. Still suspicious, he checked that the girth was tight, then asked, "Isn't it too cold to be doing this?"

The horse just looked forward, eyes half-closed. Like he was bored.

"Have it your way then," Calix muttered before launching himself into the saddle, fighting to find the other stirrup.

Nox's head went down and he let out an indignant squeal before he began to crow-hop. Calix's teeth rattled every time the horse hit the earth. The stallion kept that up until Calix proved he wasn't going anywhere, then he began to sunfish, twisting as he arched his back toward the sky. The men began to cheer as Calix stayed on the horse's back.

After Nox tried to send him flying headfirst out of the saddle, Calix decided he'd had more than enough fun. Nox had made his point. Running his hand down the rein until it was at the corner of the horse's mouth, Calix grabbed the thin leather strap and yanked backwards as hard as he could, wrenching Nox's head around until his nose nearly touched Calix's knee.

The horse skidded to a halt, muscles quivering. He snorted and blew, nostrils flaring. Calix held him like that for a moment before slowly releasing him. Nox shook his head, sides expanding as he huffed a sigh.

Tentatively, Calix touched his heel to the horse's left flank. Nox shook his head again, but seemed to realize that Calix was serious about staying in the saddle today. He turned left, trotting over to where the others were waiting.

Grins greeted Calix, the soldiers of the fort always appreciative of Nox's morning antics. It was a lively start to the day. The men, laughing and joking still, guided their horses through the trees as they started the day's journey.

Tarquin nudged his mount—a bay gelding with a penchant toward laziness—into step with Nox. The stallion rolled his eyes a little at the other horse, but kept moving forward. Grimacing, Calix tried to work the new kinks out of his back, his breath puffing from his mouth in little pants as he caught his breath.

"You just like to show off," Tarquin said sagely. "That's why you put up with that beast."

Calix just shrugged in answer. Maybe he did, even if his body didn't care overmuch for it. Tarquin snorted but didn't say any more, ducking a branch as he guided the gelding back onto the barely-there trail they were taking north.

Silence fell, everyone's attention on their surroundings. Morning mist hung heavy between the trees, making the air feel close and the world small. The elm and oak had long since lost their leaves, standing like dark skeletons among their evergreen brothers. The sound of the horses' hooves was muffled by the layers of fallen pine needles. The fog clung to everything, turning to beads of water on Calix's skin that slid down the back of his neck and set a chill to his bones.

He burrowed down into his coat, the wolf fur warm against his neck. His knuckles ached in the cold, as did his right ankle. The creak of saddle leather and the occasional cough were the only sounds. Even the birds had the sense to stay out of the terrible weather.

As the day moved out of its infancy, the mist began to thin and they urged their horses into a light canter, wanting to cover ground as quickly as they could.

The longer they remained isolated, the more precarious their situation would become. 

Calix dared a glance over his shoulder, knowing it didn't necessarily mean anything that he couldn't see anyone following them. The Brunian warriors were experts at stealth. You only saw them if they wanted you to. Or if they were trying to kill you.

They switched off between a brisk walk and that light canter for as long as they could, trying to simultaneously spare the horses and travel quickly. The sky grew ever darker as the hours moved by.

And then the first few flakes began to trickle down between the branches. Calix held up a hand, prompting the others to slow as he drew Nox to a walk.

"We need to move before it gets too slick to run the horses," Tarquin called, voice muffled by the hood of his cloak. "We'e still got a good twenty-five miles to cover." He looked at the lieutenant to confirm this, grimacing when the man nodded.

Calix squinted up at the splotches of sky peeking through the pine needles, trying to judge how fast the snow was coming down. It was impossible to tell through the branches. He twisted in the saddle to find Tarquin looking miserable in the cold. "The ground will stay clear while we're in the trees. We'll walk for a while."

A creeping, nervous sensation was itching at his skin. Everything inside of him said something was wrong here, and he didn't want to exhaust the horses now if they ended up having to make a run for it later. He swept the surrounding trees with another wary gaze, the back of his neck prickling. 

Keeping his movements casual so as not to alarm any of the others, he let his hand drift down to the hilt of his sword. He pulled lightly, making sure the blade had not been stuck to the inside of the scabbard by the frost. He turned in the saddle again, watching their back-trail, and caught Tarquin's eye.

Tarquin raised a dark brow in question, but Calix just shook his head. There was no reason to raise the alarm just yet. The men were already naturally wary and alert. He didn't see any point in frightening them.

Frightened soldiers were far too jumpy. Likely to cut and run when they needed to stand and fight.

So he turned forward again, letting that prickle of apprehension settle into place so he was aware, but not overwhelmed by the nervous feeling. His breath clouded in front of him, betraying the tremble of his nerves. Calix scowled, tucking his chin down and brushing the dusting of snow from his hair before it could melt.

It was another half hour before the snow began to stick, piling first in the spaces between the trees.

"General?" Tarquin asked, a gentle prompting in his voice.

Calix sighed, the cold air catching in the back of his throat and making him cough. Tarquin was right. It was more important to cover ground than to bet on a pursuit that might not happen. It would only grow more dangerous as night drew near.

Nox moved readily enough into a ground-eating stride, the extra movement working to warm Calix. The thud of hooves seemed to hang in the air for but a second before the snow dragged the sound down and silenced it. His own breath was somehow muted in his ears.

It was most disconcerting.

That feeling of apprehension...of wrongness, persisted and grew. Sweat slicked Calix's palms in spite of his icy fingers. His heart rapped frantically against his ribs.

He inhaled deeply, holding it until his heart beat slowed before letting it out in a slow, smoky stream. Nox bobbed his head, ears flicking nervously and Calix stroked his neck, glad he wasn't the only one feeling a little skittish.

The trees suddenly broke and a clearing sprawled out before them. Calix's heart skipped a beat and Nox reared with a whinny, hooves pawing at the air. The other horses skidded to a stop, whinnying in response to the stallion's outburst. They bunched up together with nervous wickers as Calix placed a steadying hand on Nox's warm neck.

"My gods," the lieutenant breathed.

Calix stared, and stared some more. Then he slowly shook his head, sliding from the saddle. "Not our gods, Lieutenant."

He handed Nox's reins to Tarquin, signaling for the men to stay mounted.

In the clearing, wreathed in scraps of ghostly mist, stood seven massive stones. They were clearly put there by the hands of men, not nature, their edges clean-cut and almost uniform. The deep grey slabs stood in a perfect circle, reaching toward the sky like rocky fingers protruding from the ground.

Calix's heart pounded in his throat now, his very blood screaming at him to leave this place.

To get away.

Behind him, he could hear the lieutenant whisper, "We must have gone too far north."

His breath came in shallow bursts that were entirely too visible in the chill. Calix closed his eyes for a moment to calm himself, but everything in him lurched with fear and he whipped back around, half expecting a Brunian warrior with blade held aloft.

There was nothing.

Calix blinked in confusion before he turned back to those dreadful stones.

His mouth went dry, his legs growing heavier with every step he took forward.

The wind seemed to whisper—words he could hear but not understand brushed past his ears. Shivers wracked him and the mist writhed as he approached the nearest stone. His stomach heaved, his vision twisting and he nearly stumbled back before something caught his eye.

Carvings.

The stones were covered in massive, intricate carvings that where dazzlingly white against the dark rock they were scored across. It took a moment before Calix could force his eyes to actually focus on what they were seeing.

The image seemed to resist him, straining his eyes and fraying his nerves even more.

The men murmured to one another, their fear leaking across the clearing and seeping into the stones. Calix ignored them and squinted as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. A headache bloomed behind his eyes. 

Runes. That was the first thing he could make out around the edges of the stone. Not the writing the Brunians used. Something more...ancient. Something deadly. Cruel. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to back up, to leave this place as quickly as he could.

His breathing became labored, the headache mushrooming to fill his entire skull as he moved his gaze to the main body of the stone. 

The wind shrieked around him. Bile rose in his throat and he had the absurd thought that the stones did not like that he was here. They did not like him.

Shaking away the strange feeling, he looked at the carving in the center of the rock.

A woman stared back at him.

Pain exploded through his skull, sending him to his knees. Heat burned his upper lip as blood burst from his nose. Calix clutched at his head, his fingers pressing against his temples as blood splashed to the snow, right at the woman's feet.

"Calix!" Tarquin's startled voice echoed for a brief moment in his ears before silence wrapped around him like a cocoon, muffling the world.

He couldn't even hear his own breath heaving in and out as he stared up at the carving. The woman's stone eyes glittered mist-silver as they bored into him, searching for his soul. Her mass of dark hair rippled in the wind. His lips parted in shock, the copper taste of his own blood jerking him back into reality.

A hand came down on his shoulder and he sucked in a startled breath, tearing his eyes away from the woman. Tarquin was kneeling beside him, dark eyes filled with fear. He kept his gaze angled away from the stone. Calix couldn't stop himself from looking up again, studying the woman.

She was beautiful, with generous curves and a lovely mouth pulled into a dangerous sort of smile. He blinked in surprise. The eyes were now dark, like the rest of the stone.

"Calix!" Tarquin nearly shouted, giving him a rough shake. 

Calix tore his gaze away from the woman once more, looking at his brother. The raw terror in Tarquin's eyes startled him, and he threw himself to his feet, hand reaching for his sword as he whirled, prepared for an attack.

There was nothing.

The clearing was still and empty, the rest of their company crowded at the edge of the trees as they fearfully watched Calix.

"We shouldn't be here," he muttered, a chill drawing cold fingers up his spine. He had the mad thought that it was the woman, her hand resting against the back of his neck to fill him with dread. "They don't want us here."

"Then we should leave," Tarquin said, gripping Calix's elbow. He didn't note the oddness of Calix's statement. Perhaps he could feel it as well.

They were not welcome in this place.

Calix dared one more look at the stone, going still when his eyes found nothing. Absolutely nothing. The stone was wiped clean. Naught but a bare face of rock, beaten and shaped by the island's harsh weather.

He was jerked roughly forward, Tarquin hauling him away from the rock formation. Hot blood coated the lower half of his face, steaming gently as it met the cold air. Calix stumbled, his vision blurring and tunneling.

Before he could so much as warn Tarquin, his knees gave out and he collapsed to the ground, shivering and feverish. His vision went grey then red, and he lurched forward, sure he was about to be sick.

Hands grabbed roughly under his arms and he was dragged backwards, sliding across the slick, wet grass. The rough bark of a tree scraped against his back and the sharp tang of pine cut through the copper scent of blood.

The world righted itself almost immediately, leaving Calix trembling as he gaped at the clearing spread before him.

Dead silence surrounded him as he pulled himself shakily to his feet with the aid of the pine tree. Calix kept his gaze on the dead needles forming a cushion beneath his feet. He could feel their eyes on him. He could taste their shock—their fear.

As always, Tarquin jumped to his rescue. "The general has been ill these past days at sea. He hasn't yet recovered his full strength."

Better sick than mad. Better a temporary weakness than for them to think him incapable. Or cursed.

Tarquin brought Nox over to him and helped Calix back into the saddle. Calix did his best to slump forward and look like he was ill, which wasn't all that hard to do. His stomach rolled against his spine and his head was pounding. The nosebleed slowed to a trickle.

The men all exchanged glances before they shuffled toward their own horses.

"Are you...well enough to ride, General?" the lieutenant asked cautiously, like he was afraid his words would send Calix into another fit.

Calix only nodded, nudging his horse into a walk.

They skirted the clearing, correcting their course back more toward the south. Calix scrubbed at his face with the collar of his shirt, the blood stark red against the wool. The snow became thicker, drifting down in sparkling white veils that soon hid the stones from view.

The feeling of being unwelcome faded, as did the sick feeling the farther they got from the clearing and its strange stones.

At a word from Calix, they moved back into a canter, keeping up the faster pace until the ground turned white and treacherous. The slick ground forced them to slow down. Now they could only alternate between a trot and a walk.

Calix didn't realize he was drifting off as they walked until a hand on his shoulder startled him awake. He jerked upright, hand flying to his side.

"Peace, mindra," Tarquin said, his calm voice soothing.

Calix licked his lips, tasting the remnants of dried blood he hadn't managed to clean off. Carefully, he turned to his brother. Tarquin's dark eyes were troubled. He looked forward and Calix realized they had fallen behind the others.

"Did you see it?" Calix barely dared to whisper. Fear clutched at his insides, unnatural and insistent. "Did you see what was upon the stone?"

An image of that bare rock-face flashed in his mind, making him question everything he'd seen. 

It couldn't... Calix shook his head, suddenly furious with himself. Carvings didn't simply disappear into nothingness. He had seen the image of a woman. And then...

Maybe he was still suffering the effects of so long at sea. His inclination toward motion sickness had only become worse the older he got. Perhaps his body was still adjusting to being on dry land. And they had been riding hard for days now. The cold and fear of getting these men killed had kept him from any restful sleep.

"My eyes deceive me," he muttered, then he turned slightly as he realized Tarquin hadn't answered his question. 

Tarquin was staring blankly ahead, seemingly deep in thought. 

"It was the same," he said, making Calix flinch in surprise.

They both looked ahead toward the others. One of the soldiers glanced over his shoulder at the outburst, blanching when he met Calix's gaze. He made a mental note not to allow any of these men anywhere near the men of the Seventh.

There were already enough rumors about him circling through the Metian army.

"What was the same?" he said, pitching his voice so low it was almost indiscernible. 

Tarquin swallowed hard, throat bobbing nervously as he gave Calix a sideways glance. As if they shared one mind, they both turned in the saddle, staring at the trail behind them—at the hoof-prints slowly disappearing under the snow.

"The woman," Tarquin whispered as they turned back around. His knuckles were white around the reins. "Her appearance...it was exactly what the reports described after the battle with the Wolfclaws."

A burst of relief flashed through him. Tarquin had seen it as well.

"Of the death-maidens?" Calix asked, startled. He tried to think back to what he'd seen, but the only clear image that came to mind was piercing silver-white eyes.

Tarquin only nodded in response, his jaw tense, mouth a grim line. No one else would be able to read the fear Calix could see etched into the lines of his brother's face.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

"Are you certain?" Calix finally asked, brushing his hand absently along Nox's mane to knock the snow away.

"I read dozens of those reports, mindra," Tarquin said, looking over his shoulder again. "They all said the same thing. Beautiful women with dark hair, in thin robes with black lines down their cheeks and foreheads."

Calix opened his mouth to ask about the color of their eyes, then frowned. "Dark hair?"

The people of Brunia were predominantly fair, with red or blond hair and usually pale blue eyes.

Tarquin shrugged uneasily. "That is what the reports said."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Calix let that information settle in. It was, of course, not impossible that there would be dark-haired people on the island. Calix had just never seen one himself.

"That place," Tarquin began slowly, shifting in his saddle, "there was something...wrong." He frowned, tugging the hood of his cloak down lower to shield his face as the snow grew heavier. "We should not have disturbed it."

Calix didn't respond for a long time. He brushed absently at his nose, dried blood crumbling against his skin. His hands were still shaking. Then he looked at Tarquin. His knuckles were white and his mouth was a thin line, but he didn't appear ill.

Why had the stones only affected him so?

"Perhaps it was a shrine," Tarquin muttered thoughtfully. He shook his head, a heavy sigh gusting from him. "Perhaps these women are not women at all."

The thought sank insidious claws into Calix's mind, making his mouth go dry. He wanted to shake his head in denial. After all, he did not even have faith in his own gods. Why should he have faith in the gods of his enemies?

The tang of blood lingering in the back of his throat didn't do much to convince him of this.

They exchanged a heavy glance before putting their heels to their horses to catch up to the others.