"Halt!"
"What's wrong?" Ragnar asked when the Orcs froze, staring at the fork like their lives depended on it.
"We don't stray too far from camp," Orakh said, voice hard. "Let's go back."
Draki didn't move. He kept his eyes on the split path and lifted his chin. "From all our scouts, we've never gone past here. There might be something ahead."
Ren and the others leaned forward to see. The left path was strewn with fresh bones, half-eaten carcasses, and sticky ribbons of blood. The air there stank of predators—rank, iron, hungry.
The right path was choked with poisonous mushrooms and crawling, unknown plants. Vines pulsed like veins, tendrils creeping over the trail as if eager to snare ankles. Every trunk bore scratches, and smears of dark red marked the bark like warnings.
Both routes looked like invitations to die.
Orakh shook his head. "Right leads to the lair of the Toad God, Obulg. It hates visitors. Left leads to the home of a nasty old hag. Both are apex domains."
