I had marked Nira the moment I'd taken her hostage, embedding the seal deep enough that no matter where she ran, I'd be able to find her. It was a precaution, a way to ensure that even if she managed to break free, she'd never truly escape. Assuming, of course, she'd actually survived the ice I trapped her in.
Part of me hoped she had. Not out of mercy, but practicality. Dead subordinates were useless, and like the goblins, the Chosen had value now. If I were going to build a clan capable of entering the King's Game, I'd need every ounce of strength I could gather. Integration wasn't optional anymore—it was survival.
The world blurred as I reappeared, the rush of compressed air brushing past my ears. My boots met solid ground, and in the distance, I immediately spotted them.
Two figures huddled near the base of a jagged rock formation—Nira and Gork. Both looked worse for wear, their postures stiff, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and wariness.
