The weight of eyes pressed against Soren's back like daggers as he made his way through the camp. What had been exhaustion after their retreat had hardened into something darker, suspicion that clung to him like a second shadow.
"He should have died with the others," someone whispered as he passed. "Why was he spared?"
The words weren't meant for him, yet they carried clearly in the tense silence of the camp. Soren kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight against the retort that rose in his throat. Defending himself would only feed the whispers.
Harrick of Trescan stood among a cluster of nobles, his earlier fear transformed into righteous accusation. His voice rose deliberately as Soren approached.
"Strange, wouldn't you say? The green-haired demon cuts down knights and lords alike, yet stops before this... recruit." Harrick's lips curled around the word as if tasting something foul. "Almost as if he recognized him."
