The night was cold and sharp, the kind of chill that crept into bones no matter how near the fire one sat. The mercenaries had set camp on a rise overlooking the canyon’s exit, their tents huddled like battered teeth against the wind. The firelight cast pale circles against the dark, but even that small warmth could not thaw the tension that clung to the air.
Kaelen had posted double watches. His men were too weary for it, too frayed at the edges, but exhaustion mattered little when Malrik’s riders were still in pursuit. He knew they had bought themselves hours, perhaps a day, by threading the canyon. But that reprieve would not last. Men like Malrik did not stop. They hunted until the quarry bled out.
From his vantage at the edge of camp, Kaelen watched the shadows crawl across the hill
