The march into Raven’s Hollow at the head of a twenty-man calm distance of trial guards was an unrushed, victorious progression through the southern pine forests.
Raven’s Hollow was a narrow, mist-shrouded limestone gorge cut through the border mountains, two leagues south of Boundary Pylon Three. In the shadow of the sheer granite cliffs, hidden beneath camouflage nets woven from living pine boughs and shadow-moss, stood the forward logistics base of the Flying Crane Sect.
The encampment was deserted. The guard post scouts left behind to guard the camp had fled into the southern inside the moment they saw the wreckage of their four assault skiffs tumbling from the sky in flames. Abandoned iron cooking kettles were still warm on the hearths, and half-eaten roasted pheasant lay scattered on cedar frame stand tables.
The limestone gorge of Raven’s Hollow was a damp, shadow-drenched crevice where the sun never reached the forest floor. Heavy ferns and black lichen clung to the sheer cliffs, dripping icy mountain runoff onto the canvas-covered wagons. The silence in the abandoned camp was unnatural. Even the mountain ravens had fled the area, unnerved by the lingering ozone discharge that hung in the air from the morning’s thirty lightning strikes.
