The company had grown too quiet.
Roran rode stiff-backed, eyes sweeping the road ahead. The drizzle had ceased at dawn, leaving the forest sodden and still. Birds did not sing. No breeze stirred the branches overhead.
Kaelen felt it too, that tightening in the chest, the prickle at the nape of his neck. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him.
Behind, Mira’s voice was a rasp. “We’re being followed.”
“Shut it,” muttered Garen. But his hand never left his sword hilt.
Kaelen glanced back. The narrow road wound between black pines, their needles dripping. No sign of pursuit. And yet…
Serenya walked as always, untouched by fatigue, her cloak trailing. Her gaze wasn’t on the road, but fixed somewhere far beyond, as though she listened to whispers no one else could hear.
Roran growled, “Pic
