“He’s there. And I think he’s looking for one of us.”
Storne stood beneath a nearby torch, cloak stirring in the wind. He met Gabriel’s eyes and gestured to his tent.
“Captain Feindoran.”
Gabriel muttered, “Guess I won’t be sleeping tonight.”
But Viktor was already moving.
He cut through the rows of tents, caught the edge of Storne’s flap, and ducked inside.
Gabriel followed.
“What are you doing?” they both asked at once.
Viktor dug into his pack and pulled out a scorched shard of bark.
“Glaston cedar,” he said, the words cutting sharp and fast.
Storne stepped forward, taking the bark with cautious hands.
It was blackened—scarred—and faintly fragrant.
“Glaston cedar grows in only one place,” Viktor murmured, voice low and grim.
Storne’s fingers traced the burn marks, expression darkening.
“And only one thing could’ve done this.”
His jaw tensed. The bark trembled in his hand.
Then he turned—slowly—toward Gabriel.
“Captain Feindoran will take a unit into the Glaston barrens at first light.”
“No,” Viktor said immediately.
Storne’s brow twitched.
“What did you say?”
“You can’t send a unit into that forest. More soldiers means more noise. More tracks. More prey.”
Storne stiffened.
“Then what would you have me do, Captain?”
Viktor met his eyes.
“Send me.”
Storne stared.
“Alone?”
Viktor nodded.
“More bodies in the barrens will draw too much attention. I can move faster. Leave no trace.”
