Soren slowed his horse to a walk. He knew this silence. He had felt it on a hundred battlefields and in a dozen hunts.
A pedator? he wondered. Something large enough that the rest of the world stops breathing when it moves.
He did not stop. He continued his forward progress, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of the blade at his side. He didn't draw it, but he was ready.
He could feel eyes on him, not one pair, but several. They were watching him from the shadows of the broad-trunked trees, moving parallel to him with a terrifying, liquid grace.
He could feel their heat. Even from twenty yards away, the specific warmth of fire magic contained in living flesh radiated through the cold air. They were following him, pacing him, their presence a low hum of energy in the back of his mind.
They didn't approach. They simply watched.
They know I am here, Soren realized. They have known since I crossed the line. They feel the ice in my marrow the way I feel the fire in theirs.
