Behind him, the three leopard-spirit warriors… Torin, Bran, and Kael… hurriedly finished carving the jagged Veynar secret crests into the bark of the weeping willows.
Their bone-chisels made quick, scraping cuts into the wood, their hands moving with a frantic efficiency. They didn't talk. The sight of four elite sentries dropping in five breaths without letting out a single vibration had entirely cured them of their earlier arrogance.
"Pick up the pace," Sol muttered, his voice a low, rough rasp. "The sun isn't waiting for us to finish our business. Tala, take the lead line again. Keep us off the main beast-paths."
Tala didn't say a word. Her small, wiry frame bent until her stomach nearly scraped the wet mud, her pale, milky-grey eyes staring blindly into the blue-grey fog while her ears twitched, sorting through the morning wind.
The squad fell back into their running formation.
