The mist rolled in from the east like a living thing—soft at first, then dense enough to swallow torches whole.
Ligon tightened his belt of his trouser, as his warriors mounted up. The encampment was tense with expectation; even the wind had quieted. Glacy’s words still echoed in his mind.
The Sirens are near the Tungsten river bend, their illusions thin before dawn.
“Form into three wings,” Ligon commanded, his tone a blade of calm steel slicing through the murmurs. “At the faintest hint of a song, you seal your ears and your hearts alike. No one speaks unless spoken to. We find the Sirens and silence them so completely that their throats will fear to dream of melody again.”
Valia stood beside him, her hair coiled high like a crown of shadow, eyes glimmering in the torchlight with co
