Rhyka's golden gaze stayed fixed on the hollow in his Martial Vision, that strange patch of nothingness spread like a wound across the web of threads. It gnawed at him, unnatural. Too deliberate. He had extended his sight again and again, forcing the golden lines to sharpen, but the void refused to yield its secrets.
Then, movement.
Not in the forest. Not in the mist.
From Cerys.
A tiny twitch in her cheek. A narrowing of her eyes as she scanned the fog to their right. Too small for most to notice. But Rhyka did. His Martial Vision caught the subtle change in her breathing rhythm, the flicker of tension running through her muscles.
She had seen it too. Or something else. And like him, she was pretending.
The thought barely had time to form before Rhyka's body screamed at him.
Not his golden vision. Not the web of light. His body.
