The embers of the fire breathed with a faint, weary life, as if each small red glow surviving beneath the ash were the final memory of a night that refused to die. The forest remained wrapped in that thick mist that had followed us since we left Valdrem. It did not move like a simple morning fog. It drifted slowly between the trees, climbed along the roots, slid through the naked branches, and seemed to watch us with ancient patience. Serah still stood there, motionless, her eyes fixed on the darkness stretching between the trunks. That was when we heard footsteps. Slow. Uneven. Approaching through the mist. It was Eldran. He moved with difficulty, leaning on a thick branch he had turned into a staff. His breathing was heavy, and sweat gleamed across his brow despite the cold of the forest. The wound the werewolf had left on his torso no longer burned with the same fury it had during the night. But something about it was worse now. The skin around the wound had begun to darken, as if black ink were spreading beneath the flesh, creeping slowly toward his ribs and side.

  —You should get some rest, Captain —he said at last, his voice rough, scraping against his throat.

  —You should too —I replied, still watching the dark line of trees ahead.

  Eldran shook his head.

  —Sleep isn't something my body seems willing to give me tonight.

  He stopped beside me and stared into the mist. For several seconds neither of us spoke.

  —I can take the watch —he finally said. —Go get some sleep. If that thing returns… I'd rather have you awake to face it.

  I studied him. He looked like a man who should already be delirious with fever, yet there was a stubborn determination in his eyes, the same look I had seen in warriors who had survived too long to surrender to pain.

  —If you see anything strange, wake us.

  Eldran let out a faint, tired smile.

  —In this valley… everything is strange.

  I didn't argue. I returned to the camp. Aldric slept sitting against a tree, his sword resting between his hands as if it were part of his body. Maelor snored softly near the embers, the rings on his fingers catching the faint red glow of the dying fire. Serah had laid down only minutes before Eldran rose to take the watch. I leaned against a tree trunk and closed my eyes. Sleep took me with brutal speed. I don't know how long I slept. But when I woke, something was wrong. It wasn't a sound that woke me. It was the silence. A deep, unnatural silence. The kind that only exists when something in the forest has decided to stop breathing. I opened my eyes slowly. The fire was dead. The embers had gone cold. And we were not alone. Figures stood around the camp. Dozens of them. They formed a wide, silent circle around us. Men. Women. Even children. Their clothing was a strange mixture of dark fabrics, embroidered vests, worn cloaks and scarves that partially covered their heads. Many wore necklaces made from old coins, animal teeth, small bells and talismans carved from bone. Whenever one of them moved, those objects chimed softly, a delicate sound that made the silence even more unsettling. They watched us. Quietly. Curiously. Coldly. Serah was already awake. So was Aldric. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but three curved knives pointed directly at his throat. Eldran sat on the ground, breathing heavily. Two large men stood beside him with short spears. No one spoke. Then a voice broke the silence. —Don't try anything stupid. A woman stepped forward into the center of the circle. She was old. But not fragile. Her skin was weathered by time and memory, and her black hair fell in many braids decorated with wooden beads, worn coins and small bleached bones. But it was her eyes that commanded respect. Black. Deep. Ancient. She stopped in front of us.

  —Welcome —she said with the faintest hint of a smile. —Travelers of the Devil's Valley.

  Her gaze moved slowly across each member of the group. Aldric spat on the ground.

  —Who the hell are you people?

  The woman tilted her head.

  —We are those who still remember how to listen to this place —she gestured toward the forest —. Stand up!

  They disarmed us quickly. No blows. No unnecessary violence. But the efficiency with which they moved made it clear resistance would be pointless. They led us through the forest to a hidden camp. Old wagons stood between the trees. Dark tents. Low fires. Amulets hanging from ropes stretched between trunks. Several cages filled with crows hung from the lower branches. Their black eyes followed us as we passed. The air smelled of smoke, damp leather… and something else. Something like incense mixed with wild herbs. Something that seemed to rise from the earth itself. They brought us to the largest tent. The woman entered first. Inside stood a low table covered with a dark cloth embroidered with strange red symbols. Black candles flickered around it, filling the tent with trembling light. The woman sat down.

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  —My name is Mireya —her voice was calm —. I lead these people. We are wanderers. Some call us gypsies. Others call us witches. Others simply call us fools who didn't know how to escape when the valley began closing in on itself.

  She leaned forward slightly.

  —We have wandered these roads for generations. And we have learned something most outsiders never understand —her voice lowered —. In the Devil's Valley, you don't survive by fighting it… you survive by listening to it —she continued quietly —. We do not hunt what moves in the mist. We do not follow voices in the forest. We do not cross certain rivers when the moon is low. And above all…

  She paused.

  —We do not interfere with the things that belong to this place —she slowly picked up a worn deck of cards from the table —.That is why we are still alive —a faint smile crossed her lips —. And why you are still breathing… for now.

  Maelor frowned.

  —If you allow me —she continued —I would like to read your fate.

  —Our fate?

  Serah asked. Mireya began shuffling the cards slowly. The sound of the deck sliding between her fingers was dry and precise.

  —The valley is always speaking —she looked up —. You only have to know how to listen.

  Serah crossed her arms.

  —And why should we believe your cards?

  Mireya smiled.

  —Because you are already part of the Devil's game.

  She placed five cards face down on the table. The candles flickered. The wind outside the tent whispered through the trees.

  —Five signs —she murmured. —Five warnings.

  She turned the first card. A massive tower struck by lightning. Men falling from its heights.

  —The Tower —her voice deepened —. This card speaks of betrayal… and sudden destruction. The tower represents the safety you believe you have. The alliances you believe are unbreakable. The promises you trust.

  Her eyes slowly scanned the group and her finger tapped the card.

  —But the lightning is truth arriving when no one expects it. Among you there is a traitor —the words fell like iron —. Someone whose decision will bring everything down. Someone who is not who they claim to be.

  The silence grew heavier. She turned the second card. A young man walking toward the edge of a cliff. Smiling.

  —The Fool. The unexpected. The impossible to foresee. he arrival of something or someone that will shatter the path you believe you are walking —she looked up —. When everything seems lost… When you believe the valley has finally decided to devour you… Help will arrive. Unexpected —she tilted her head slightly —. But remember this: The Fool does not always know the difference between courage… and madness.

  She turned the third card. A man hanging upside down from a tree. The candle flames flickered harder.

  —The Hanged Man... Sacrifice. The choice to lose something irreplaceable so something greater may survive —her eyes moved across us —. One of you will die. Only that sacrifice will allow the others to live.

  She revealed the fourth card. A skeletal knight riding a dark horse.

  —Death —she lifted a hand calmly —. Do not fear this card. Death does not always mean the end. In this case it announces a birth. Something new —her finger touched the skeletal knight —. Perhaps a weapon capable of destroying what neither men nor gods have been able to kill. Something that could end the hunter's cycle — her voice dropped to a whisper —. The valley hides a perfect weapon.

  Then she looked at the final card. She froze. Seconds passed.

  —This card… —her voice barely rose above a whisper. —It should not be here.

  She tried to slide it back into the deck. My hand stopped her.

  —Show it.

  She turned the card. An open grave. A figure rising from it.

  —Judgment.

  The candles trembled violently. A gust of wind shook the tent. Mireya slowly pulled her hand away. Her face had turned pale.

  —There is someone in this valley… Someone who died… and yet still walks among the living.

  Her gaze passed over everyone in the tent. Until it stopped on my helmet. For the first time since we met her… Mireya looked afraid.

  —And when that dead man finally speaks… You will pray you had never heard his name.