Returning to the Valley

The morning fog was thicker than it had been the past few days, and the shadows of the trees outside the valley entrance were blurred as if painted over with ink. I had packed only the essentials: twin blades, rations, a waterskin, and the half of the hard shell I had collected last night. The hard shell was wrapped in cloth and tied at my waist, lightly bumping against my leg with every step. Its cold touch seeped through the fabric, keeping me constantly alert.

I headed south along yesterday's route. The soil beneath my feet was still wet and soft, and every step brought the faint sound of moisture being squeezed out. I kept my breathing light, avoiding the formation of white mist before my mouth that might reveal my position. The wind through the woods was sluggish, as if wrapped in thick cotton. Occasionally, droplets fell from the high branches and struck the leaves with short, crisp sounds.

As I neared the valley, I stopped first and circled halfway around the outskirts, observing from higher ground. The nest was in the same position as yesterday, and the mud mound showed no obvious changes. However, several fresh scrape marks had appeared on the vine leaves, as if something had pushed outward from inside. The stench in the air was heavier than yesterday, mixed with a faint scorched smell. I could not tell whether it came from heated soil or something else.

I crouched quietly at the edge of the high ground like a lurking cheetah, my eyes sweeping over the valley below with the sharpness of an eagle while my ears, like radar, keenly caught every unusual sound in the surroundings.

The wind threaded through the valley, gently stirring the winding vines. They swayed slightly, almost as if they