Mist congealed ahead, margins brightening as though moonlight pooled inside it. Pale shapes bled from the haze—bodies the size of children, limbs stick-thin, heads too large and round. Chains bit slender wrists, manacles glowing a sullen blue where runes smoldered. Their mouths moved in a silent chorus, small tongues flicking like minnows under ice.
He watched with the detached interest of a physician observing pathology. Illusion, certainly. But whose? The glyphwork on the chains shimmered in a sequence he recognized: low-tier Soul-Reaper conjuration, designed to tug empathy and lure rescuers. Sloppy. The spacing between sigil nodes was uneven; the caster lacked fine discipline.
