Jace
Ronan’s rut should have burned out after three days. Five, at the ugly edge. We are past the edge and walking on the underside now.
Maps cover the table in the command room like skins. Border marks, choke points, old poacher trails, new Redmaw tracks burned in with charcoal. I’ve redrawn the same black spruce notch three times, and the paper still insists Redmaw is gathering there like flies on meat.
Mara leans against the doorframe, arms folded, gaze knife-sharp. “You keep staring at the same line like it’s going to move for you.”
“If it were polite,” I say, “It would.”
“How long has it been now?”
“Since the bond went quiet and we pulled Eli out?” I don’t need to check. It’s welded into the back of my eyes. “Eight days.”
Mara doesn’t flinch, but her jaw ticks. Rut is supposed
