They broke camp at first light. The birches stood ghostly in the dawn haze, their pale trunks like watchmen as the mercenaries saddled horses and shouldered packs.
Serenya moved among them with quiet grace, untouched by the weariness that bent every other back. She carried no pack, bore no visible weapon. Still, the air around her seemed charged, as though she were armored in something unseen.
The company noticed.
Mira muttered curses under her breath, pointedly turning her back whenever Serenya drifted near. Garen spat each time he caught her in his line of sight. Even the younger ones—boys who had survived the ambush only to be hollowed by grief, watched her with wide, wary eyes.
Only Roran spoke to her directly, and then only with clipped, practical words. “Keep to the flank. Don’t
