Jun Kai had walked the same perimeter three times.
He knew this because the eastern marker...an iron post carved with the tournament seal...leaned slightly to the left, and he had corrected his step to avoid brushing it each time. The first time had been unconscious. The second time deliberate. The third time almost irritated.
The iron caught lantern light along its engraved edges, casting a thin shadow that shifted with the breeze. It was imperfect. Slightly bent. Subtly flawed.
He had noticed.
He always noticed.
The path curved around the camp's outer ring, wide enough for patrol pairs to pass without slowing, narrow enough to discourage loitering. Gravel shifted under his boots with a steady, disciplined rhythm. The night air carried the scent of damp earth, smoke, and distant river water.
He did not slow.
