A figure broke through the treeline at a run.
Not fast—
desperate.
He stumbled twice before reaching the edge of the clearing, his booths skidding through the damp rotting leaves of the forest floor.
He caught himself on his hands, his head hanging low as breath tore out of his chest in ragged, wet heaves. He looked like a man who had been running since before the sun had even thought of rising.
"—they're—"
He couldn't finish his sentence.
Alistair was already moving. He didn't glide; he lunged, his boots skidding in the dirt as he caught the man before he hit the ground.
"Look at me." Alistair's voice was low, strained.
The scout tried. Failed. Tried again. Blood streaked his sleeve. It wasn't fresh neither was it his.
"They found us," he forced out, his voice cracking. "Not here—not yet—but the routes—"
Asarmose arrived a second later. He didn't just scan the perimeter; he looked at the scout's trembling hands, his own jaw tightening.
"How close?" the asarmose asked.
