But they hadn't stayed on the road. The map was useless in this soup, and the path had long since vanished underfoot.
"David," Jack hissed, his voice cracking. "Did you hear that?"
Voices drifted through the mist as the men from the Slaughtered Lamb appeared, their faces grim as they lowered their rifles. David lay on the cold ground, gasping for air and clutching his shoulder. Jack was shaking but pulled himself toward David's side. As the locals gathered around them, a strange, pulsing heat began to radiate from David’s injury, a sensation that felt far deeper than a simple wound. The moon, though hidden by clouds, seemed to exert a sudden, heavy pull on his very soul, marking the beginning of a nightmare that would follow him all the way to London.
The world blurred into a haze of cold mist and sharp stalks of heather. The creature loomed over him, a terrifying silhouette against the grey sky, but then a sharp crack echoed across the moors. Another followed in quick succession. The beast let out a sharp cry and retreated into the darkness of the fog.
Then came the sound—a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the damp earth itself. It wasn't a dog, and it certainly wasn't the wind. It was something heavier, something ancient.