The wind howled through the mountain pass, carrying with it a whisper of something old—older than either Ashyra or Stephan could name. The air had changed. Sharpened. As if the earth itself held its breath.
Ashyra stood in front of the war table inside the command tent, eyes fixed on the map riddled with red pins. The latest rogue attack had happened only twenty miles from the border of the human territories. Too close. Too organized.
“Something’s wrong,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
“I agree.” Stephan stood on the opposite side of the table, arms folded. “They’re moving like soldiers, not scattered rogues.”
“They don’t break formation. They don’t retreat. And they die like they’re not afraid.” Her voice turned bitter. “Like they don’t feel anymore.”
A tense silence
