"Contact—north line!"
Steel rasped from sheaths; helms snapped up. Vaelira's head whipped toward the call, braid rings chiming as her fingers wrapped her sword hilt. Shapes wavered in the murk beyond the last guttering torch—too small for Reaper brutes, too tall for forest wolves. She lifted her free hand, signaling the crescent to hold.
Mist parted, and copper caught the dying firelight. Sylvanna strode into view, boots splashed with muddy crimson, lightning fizzing along the runes that circled her forearm like living bracelets. Behind her padded Raëdrithar, each pawfall silent despite his bulk. Silver sparks leapt between his antlers, popping as they landed on charred leaves.
Relief slid through Vaelira's ribs, heady and painful, like drawing breath after near drowning—yet it curdled at the edges.
"Did you find him?" She hated how sharp her voice sounded, brittle porcelain ready to crack.
