Sebastian did not know that Nero was speaking about him on the southern ridge.
That was probably for the best.
He had enough problems without imagining Nero with firelight in his eyes, soot on his cheek, and that terrible Sahan smile that made cruelty look like a family heirloom.
The northern flank held.
The words had become a rhythm in Sebastian's head, quiet and practical beneath the noise of the field.
For now, the pheromone readings stayed within an acceptable range.
The beasts were moving in predictable clusters, and his team's formation remained clean, spread in a defensive fan along the ridge above the dead groves. The infected zone dipped below them in uneven folds of gray soil, fungal-stained roots, old drainage trenches, and thorn trees stripped bare by rot. The air was cold enough to bite through the collar of his field coat, but beneath it lay the sour heat of corrupted flesh.
