The land here rolled upward in a long, gentle swell that ended in a ridge overlooking the north.
We crested it and ducked behind the line of scrub and twisted oaks that marked its top.
Rhea motioned me down.
“Keep low,” she said. “Even if they can’t scent you from here, no need to offer them a nice clear silhouette.”
We crouched beside a gnarled oak whose roots clung stubbornly to the edge of the drop.
Beyond us, the northern forest spread in a patchwork of dark and paler greens, punctuated by patches where rock or frost showed through.
I could just make out the shiver of the river in the distance, a silver streak winding its way east‑west.
And there, where Blackmoon’s trees thinned and the land opened into a ragged line of stones and old stumps—the border.
On our side, a cluster o
