Lucian left before the others could resume their arguing.
He left the shelf of stone, then the broken highland, then came to the last tenuous threads of voices and residual camp warmth. Wind slipped over featureless plain. The terrain ahead thinned into those places where regular distance loses its veracity. He could feel the void-route yawning forward, not a way designed for legions or families, only for things that knew what it meant to move without retrospection.
Every step made the parting cleaner,
he reminded himself.
If Cael's rank reappeared through him, the reply should meet him singularly. If Alistair's inheritance had been responsible for reanimating the old foundations, Lucian would greet that without dragging Lucy's decision or the future of the children into the equation. If deeper authorities were already swiveling towards the flare, they would find the beacon, not the complete board.
He came to the edge of the air change.
