"SOMEONE IS ON THE PATH," he said, his voice flat, his focus snapping back to the threat at the door.
Mailah stood, her pulse racing, but Grayson caught her arm, his grip firm but careful.
He didn't move toward the iron poker. He didn't assume a stance of war. Instead, he simply stood at the threshold, his ears twitching slightly as he parsed the sounds muffled by the lashing rain. His brow, previously furrowed in the cold calculation of a strategist, relaxed by a fraction.
"It is not a strike force," he muttered, the tension draining out of his shoulders so suddenly it was as if he'd been deflated. "The stride is… halting. Irregular. And there is the sound of something metallic clanking against wood. A cart, perhaps?"
"A cart?" Mailah echoed, moving closer to the door, though she stayed behind the protective arc of his body.
