The air tasted of rain and rust. Verrath walked the narrow seam between worlds, his paws silent on the cracked asphalt of a road that no longer appeared on any map. To mortal eyes, the street was nothing—just another forgotten lane swallowed by weeds—but to him, the Path shone like a silver thread, tugging at the marrow of his bones.

He moved through shadow and lamp-glow in equal measure, a skull-faced silhouette bleeding into the night, his mane of darkness curling against the wind. The city lay far behind; here, the air was heavy with the old scent of moss, wet earth, and the quiet hum of something ancient watching back.

It was then—mid-stride, mid-thought—that he paused. A sound. A scent. A flicker. Not prey. Not yet. But something… worth following.