"You're bluffing," Doran said, though inwardly, he knew otherwise.
"Am I?" The wounded scout pressed a hand on his bleeding forearm, still smiling through the pain. "Kill me if you want. It won't slow the commander down. He's already moving."
Talven grabbed the man's collar, fury replacing the shock on his face. "How long ago did he move?"
"Long enough," the scout said. "You'll reach that outpost and find out exactly how long on your own."
Doran's mind raced through the old patterns, the instinct to offer something, anything, to pry more information loose through a trade. Coin, freedom, or a promise he had no intention of keeping. The shape of it rose in his throat, familiar and easy.
He didn't reach for it.
Instead, he pressed the tip of his blade lightly against the scout's throat.
