The forest had a different sound at night.
During the day, the wilderness breathed openly, birds calling from high branches, the wind rushing through pine needles, the distant movement of animals across the undergrowth.
But night silenced those distractions.
At night, every sound meant something.
A twig snapping meant weight.
A rustle meant movement.
Breathing meant presence.
I stood at the edge of the clearing, the moon hanging high above the treetops, its pale silver light stretching across the snow covered ground. Frost glittered faintly beneath my boots.
Behind me, the rogue camp slept.
Or at least pretended to.
Since the afternoon meeting, everyone had become more alert. Patrol rotations had doubled, and the outer watch positions had shifted deeper into the forest.
No one h
