Damien's POV
I force the heel of my palm hard against the wood of the map table, leaning down until the grain presses into my skin.
The scratching noise of the pencil in my hand is the only sound in the war room. I draw another thick line across the northern border sector, marking the perimeter where the scent broke off into nothingness.
’We are wasting time with ink,’ Voss growls, his voice scraping low and jagged against the inside of my skull. ’The trail is cold here. We should be tearing up the dirt on the ridge.’
“The ink keeps the map accurate,” I say aloud, my voice flat in the empty room. “And the ridge gave us nothing. We swept it twice.”
’Liar,’ Voss snaps, his presence pressing hard against the walls of my consciousness. ’You smell the ash and the crushed pine just as clear
