The Sound of the Tide Draws Near

The morning fog had yet to clear, and the air carried a chill. Last night's barrier had already been reset, and the traps around the perimeter had been checked once over. There were no signs of any new triggers. When he reached the valley entrance, the wind blowing from the south carried a trace of damp heat. It did not smell like the mountains, but more like the air of the lowlands, mixed with a faint fishy odor. The soil beneath his feet had softened slightly, sinking under his soles and leaving shallow prints. When he lifted his feet, he could hear a faint sucking sound.

He followed the route recorded yesterday, deliberately lightening his steps and occasionally stopping to listen. The mountain forest was unnaturally quiet. Even the calls of common birds were fewer than usual. The farther south he went, the thicker the fog became. Droplets slid down the cracks in the tree trunks and landed on the ground with soft taps. The damp air seeped into his nostrils with a trace of cold, making his breathing grow lighter.

After crossing a low hill, he found several fresh traces underfoot. Three slender, parallel scratches stretched from the wet soil to a blue-gray rock. At the ends of the scratches was a small patch of residue glinting with a pale blue-white sheen. He crouched and prodded it up with the tip of his knife. The smell was pungent, like something sweet mixed with rust, and drifted northward on the wind. He gently rubbed the sticky substance between his thumb and forefinger. A slight numbness spread across his fingertip. He flicked it onto a fallen leaf, and dark traces quickly appeared along the leaf's veins.

He raised his head. Ahead, the fog hung like a thick curtain, blocking his sight.