The march to the border was a blur of pounding feet and flickering torchlight. The night air smelled of smoke, sharp and bitter, drifting from the burning villages ahead. Evelyn led at the front, her cloak snapping behind her, sword in hand. Her heart thudded in rhythm with the warriors who ran at her side. Every step carried the weight of Damien's blessing and the burden of his absence.
George kept pace beside her, his eyes sweeping the darkness with sharp focus. "They will try to ambush us," he muttered. "Fji never plays fair."
Evelyn nodded, her jaw tight. She could almost feel Fji's presence on the wind, his malice burning as bright as the fires he spread. The thought of him drove her forward, each stride a promise that she would not allow Ravenclaw to fall to his madness.
