The forest loomed around them, dense and ancient—trees so tall their branches tangled with the sky like gnarled fingers grasping at clouds.

The monks moved in solemn silence, their robes brushing against ferns as they followed a worn path through moss-covered roots.

At the rear of this quiet procession walked the Mute, his shoulders bowed beneath an immense yoke that carried two massive stone pillars—not just heavy in weight, but heavy with purpose too: symbols meant carry across land toward the distant cathedral where they’d stand sentinel over sacred ground, once more after years of absence from it... now being rebuilt piece by piece again.

His steps were slow.

He measured each one carefully, so the load wouldn’t shift in one wrong move, to make whole thing collapse inward upon itself.—But still, he kept moving forward without complaint.

Despite how sweat dripped down his neck beneath the dark garments, while the pride-filled others ahead barely noticed his efforts.

They didn't care for him.

He wasn't a monk.

Just a set of strong hands.

They moved with deliberate caution, their steps hushed against the forest floor as they transported the sacred relic—its weight both physical and spiritual.

Wrapped in coarse cloth, it was hidden from sight inside of the wagon, but its presence alone felt like a ticking time bomb.

They knew better than to trust silence here—not when the Ua Mordha lurked nearby.

That clan had no use for saints or sanctity; only blood owed and vengeance served cold upon a blade still wet from its last kill...

Rumor spoke of them tracking this very group already, though none dared to turn to check the shadows behind the trees.

So forward they crept: eyes darting to every rustling leaf where danger might spring next.