The compass needle didn't just spin; it screamed against the glass.
Varnick gripped the brass casing until his knuckles turned white. The metal felt unnaturally hot, smelling of burnt ozone and old copper. He looked at the wet dirt road stretching into the grey mist of the Lowlands.
"It’s doing it again," Jomla said.
She stood a few feet away, clutching her leather satchel to her chest. Her eyes were fixed on her own handheld guide, which was twitching in rhythmic, violent jerks.
"Just shake it," Varnick snapped. He kicked a loose stone into the fog, trying to ignore the way his stomach churned.
Jomla shook the device hard, but the needle didn't settle on North. Instead, it swung wildly, then locked firmly toward the Blackwood Thicket.
The Thicket was where they had left the boy behind.
"It's pointing toward the trees," Jomla breathed. "Varnick, why is it pointing there?"
Varnick looked down at his own compass. The needle was steady now, pointing straight back toward the village they had fled. It pointed toward the house he had burned to cover his tracks.
The maps were no longer tools for travel.
They had become mirrors.
A low, wet sound echoed from the mist, something heavy dragging through the mud.
"Run," Varnick commanded, grabbing Jomla’s arm.
They didn't head for the city or the coast. They ran blindly, but every time they checked their bearings, the needles pulled them deeper into the dark, guiding them straight toward the things they hoped to forget.