The night air was sharp and cold, the kind of cold that made breath look like smoke and silence sound like waiting. Beneath the pale glow of the Hunter's Moon, Evelyn stood on the ridge overlooking the valley. Her army moved below, quiet as shadows. Campfires burned low, masked beneath heavy branches to hide their glow. The forest itself seemed to be holding its breath, as though it too knew the weight of what was coming.
Fji was close. His wolves had been spotted at the river crossing that morning, their scent thick with blood and smoke. By now, he would have seen the signs she left for him — the deliberate trail of abandoned wagons, the faint smell of wounded prey. He would follow it, just as she knew he would. He thought her desperate enough to run. That was her weapon.
Evelyn's fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak as she felt George approach behind her. He carried no torch. The moon was light enough.
