The eastern plains stretched to the horizon, golden brown beneath the autumn sun.
Kael stood on a ridge overlooking Corvin's camp, his small guard hidden in the trees behind him. The wind carried the smell of woodsmoke and cooking meat, mingled with the sharper scent of too many wolves gathered in one place. The camp was larger than Elowen had reported—not three hundred, but closer to five. Tents stretched across the valley in neat rows, their canvas bleached by sun and weather. Supply wagons lined the roads; their wheels caked with dried mud. Armed wolves patrolled the perimeter in pairs, their postures alert, their hands never far from their weapons.
"He's been busy," Kael muttered, lowering his spyglass.
