I circle the perimeter instead. Check the eastern boundary where Nova was working earlier. Follow the scent trails of the pack, logging who’s where, what’s normal, and what’s not.
An hour passes. Maybe more.
Derek emerges from the eastern treeline, Torres beside him. They’re finishing patrol rotation, voices low as they compare notes.
I catch Derek’s words as I pass: ”—that cologne again. Same expensive shit from when Phil visited.”
Torres frowns. “Phil was here today?”
“Didn’t see him. Just caught the scent near the old pine marker.” Derek adjusts his pack. “Third time this week I’ve smelled it on patrol.”
“Should we report it?”
Derek shrugs. “Marcus said Phil stops by sometimes. Checking in, making sure we’re handling everything after Silverwood.” His tone is easy. Trusting. “Good to have allies who give a damn, you know?”
Torres nods slowly, accepting it.
They head toward the compound, unaware I’ve heard every word.
Phil’s scent. Eastern perimeter. Three times this week. Not announced visits. Not cleared through me.
And Marcus knows about it. Kyle’s overheard conversation. Torres’s casual mention. The pieces click into place—slow, cold, inevitable.
Phil hasn’t left. He’s been circling. Testing access points. And Marcus has been covering for him, normalizing the contact.
How many quiet conversations has Phil had with Marcus while I was focused on the borders? How many times has he whispered validation into ears already full of doubt?
That’s why the faction is forming. Not because Marcus suddenly turned—because Phil’s been working him in the shadows. Private meetings. Carefully crafted concerns. Legitimizing questions that should’ve come to me first.
By the time I see the full division, it’ll be too late to stop it.
I scan the compound. Marcus stands near the lodge entrance, watching Derek and Torres approach. Elena hovers at his shoulder. The cracks are already showing.
I can’t confront Marcus—not yet. Not without driving the wedge deeper. If I accuse him of conspiring with Phil based on an overheard conversation, I’m the tyrant Phil wants them to think I am.
But I can’t ignore it either.
I file it away. Watch. Wait for Phil to make his next move.
And when he does, I’ll be ready.
The clearing behind the equipment shed sits empty except for a single figure. Nova. She moves through combat forms with focused intensity, each strike precise. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
She’s not showing off. Not performing. Just honing her skills. I can tell she’s used to training alone. Smart; picking a spot away from prying eyes.
I approach without trying to mask my footsteps. No point sneaking up on someone who can probably smell my intention before I form it.
Nova doesn’t pause her routine. Just continues the sequence—block, strike, pivot, sweep.
Her scent hits me first: sweat and determination layered with that electric edge of magic. No fear. No uncertainty. Just raw focus.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, stepping onto the packed dirt.
She completes her combination before answering. “Don’t need to yet.”
Her breathing remains steady. Controlled. But I catch the slight flutter at her pulse point. The tightness in her shoulders.
She’s burning something off. Maybe the same thing that’s keeping me awake.
