The sound of snapping branches was deafening as they approached, with no intention of hiding.
"Hmm. Arrogant," Kaela observed.
"Or stupid." Talia countered.
Then the roll of feet over wet leaf litter. Not one set. Many. A small army. The scent hit next: unwashed fur, old blood, rot, and thick magic clinging to everything like smoke.
Rogues and something else. Something Talia was not familiar with.
They poured from the dark on both sides of the stone choke point—more than twice the number that had swarmed the riverbank. Eyes like coals. Ribs showing, mouths frothing. But they didn’t come wild or raging, not this time. They came calm, organized.
Behind them, a woman in a hooded mantle stepped into the shallow wash of moonlight—incredibly long fingers, with razor-sharp nails. Bare feet
