CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
The forest's shadows seem to cling a little closer as I walk beside Silas, our footsteps muffled by the thick blanket of fallen leaves. The crescent moon barely makes it through the dense canopy above us, casting everything in a haunting silver glow. It's late, but the nocturnal calls of owls and the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush keep the silence at bay.
"Trista wasn't forthcoming," Silas says suddenly, breaking the quiet between us. His voice is low, a rumble that resonates in the still air. He runs a hand through his brown hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "I've pressed him about his interactions with the rogues, but he's tight-lipped—especially regarding Tristan."
My steps falter for a moment, my heart clenching uncomfortably. "You don't
