Ivy Calloway smelled him before she heard him, and knew him before she saw him.
Wood smoke and leather and something underneath both — the particular mix of oil and iron that came from a blade kept honed out of habit, not necessity. She’d smelled it a hundred times across a training yard, correcting his footwork, telling him to keep his weight low. Dax had been one of the better ones. Careful with his hands. Slow to anger.
She set down the waterskin she’d been filling at the camp’s edge and did not run.
He stepped out from the treeline slow, hands visible, the way she’d taught every guard under her to move toward someone who might bolt. Recognition passed over his face — not surprise. He’d known where to look before he’d started walking.
“You found me on purpose,” she said. “Not by luc
