The trail is clear and that is the only good thing about it.

The cloud you saw from the crossroads has not lifted. If anything it has dropped, and you are walking into it now, a damp grey that sits on the skin and settles into the joints. The path underfoot is loose shale — each step shifts slightly, testing your ankle. The mountain above you is not visible. The drop to your right is.

An hour in, you find a fire ring. Three flat stones arranged in a triangle, a scatter of charcoal that the wind has not quite finished dispersing. Recent. The stones are still warm.

You look up the trail. Nothing moves. You look down the trail. The crossroads has vanished into the cloud. You are entirely alone up here, as far as you can tell, except for whoever just left.

The pass proper begins fifty metres further on — a narrow cut between two faces of rock where the trail levels out briefly before descending the far side. You have heard that in summer, traders use this route. You have also heard that traders have gone missing using this route, and that the ones who do make it through describe hearing voices in the rock.

The fire ring is still warm.

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