At first, it was nothing. Merely the subtle, almost imperceptible shift beneath her back — like a heartbeat drumming through the bones of the earth. Ilyrana's eyes opened halfway, slits of molten gold glinting in the dim interior of the carriage. She did not move. Not yet. She only listened, her breath shallow, her mind sharpening from the drowsy haze of sleep.
There it was again. A faint pulse through the floorboards, not rhythmic, not patterned like a single beast's gait, but stuttering and scattered, as though several feet fell at different intervals. Heavy feet. Weighty enough to echo through the hard-packed ground.
Elven senses were a strange blessing — sometimes a curse — but now they served her as they always had. While Luke slept on the other side, chest rising and falling steadily, Ilyrana quietly rose from her bedding. Her movements were fluid and soundless, a stark contrast to the tension gathering in her chest.
Her fingers brushed the hilt of her blade on instinct.
