Empty. But not clean.
Lindarion held still. Weight on the balls of his feet. Every part of the basin below him looked untouched at a glance, but the cold didn't sit right. Too sharp at the edge, too hollow underneath.
He let his gaze move left. Down the slope. A shallow groove curled along the frostline. Uneven. Not a footprint. Not dragged by wind.
Beside him, Ardan stepped forward. Slow. Measured. The dirt under his boot gave with a muted crunch.
A strip of cloth flapped once, then settled. Red. Dark. Frozen along the edge, but soft in the middle. Not old.
Ardan crouched. Held it between two fingers. Brought it close, didn't sniff it, just looked. Then looked again.
"Still wet."
Lindarion didn't answer. His eyes were following the line past it. The way the frost broke, thinned out in places. Like a weight had passed low, not walking. Maybe crawling. Maybe dragged.
Ardan rose. Didn't brush off his glove. He looked past Lindarion now. Toward the center.
"That rock," he said.
