"What about him?"
A tense silence followed.
One of the Ravarn mercenaries swallowed before answering.
"…We lost him."
The commander's expression twisted instantly.
"You lost him?" His voice rose, sharp as a blade. "You incompetent fools! You couldn't even catch a wounded gargoyle brat?"
The mercenaries shifted uneasily beneath their cloaks. A few avoided his gaze. One tightened his grip on the curved dagger at his waist.
"…There was interference," another muttered.
"Interference?" The commander stepped forward, boots crunching against frost-hardened earth. "Is that interference more important than an order issued by the True Dragon?"
At the mention of that title, several of them flinched.
Beneath the commander's dark robe, the outline of a scaled tail twitched irritably. The tip lashed once before going still.
"We were close," one mercenary insisted. "He was bleeding. His wing was torn. We had him cornered near the ravine."
"And yet he slipped through your claws."
