They emerged from the emerald gloom of the camp at first light, a small knot of riders cutting through the morning mist. Beside Basil and his father rode ten silent guards, their armor muted by the dew.
The morning was bitingly cold, the kind of chill that seeped through wool and found the bone. Basil adjusted his fur pelt, pulling it tight against his back. After three months of hard campaigning without a proper wash, the hide had begun to stink of woodsmoke, old sweat, and damp earth, though he had grown so accustomed to the scent it felt like a second skin.
Mesmerized by the freezing air, he watched his own breath bloom in front of him in pale, ghostly clouds. He began to mouth silent words, testing to see if the mist would follow the shape of his speech. It did, swirling in the air like a dying spirit.
He felt his father's eyes on him, hard, weary, and ancient.
