The Whispering Woods had changed. The sentience that once watched Silas with wary curiosity now hummed with a low, resonant anticipation. The Weeping Willow's vision had been a beacon, and the forest knew its ancient splinter was about to be addressed. It did not make the journey easier.
Alaric’s “Grey Operations” moved with a grim efficiency foreign to Silas’s usual chaotic scrambles. Six Branch B guards, handpicked for discretion, formed a perimeter. Two Branch A Arcanists—juniors in Alaric’s debt—scanned for magical signatures with crystalline orbs that glowed with borrowed starlight. Silas’s core team walked in the middle like precious, volatile cargo.
Alaric rode at the front, a statue of focused intensity. The Stormcaller’s geas was a palpable pressure, a scent of ozone and a feeli
