The river came into view at dusk, a wide, steel-colored ribbon winding between black trees and broken stone. The air carried its chill long before the water touched them, cold enough to bite through cloak and skin.
Kaelen reached the bank first. He stood staring across, chest heaving, the current whispering like distant voices. Behind him came the shuffle of boots, the low murmur of exhaustion.
“Gods,” Bren whispered. “It’s bigger than I thought.”
Soren spat into the mud. “Too big.”
Kaelen turned. “It’s the only way.”
Roran’s cloak hung from Kaelen’s pack, bound tight against the weather. No one spoke his name. They didn’t need to. The silence carried it well enough.
From the western treeline came a faint sound, not birds, not wind. Horses.
Kaelen stiffened. “Move.”
The others hear
