The guards did not return immediately.
That was somehow worse.
The ridge remained trapped in a state of suspended dread, every snapped branch in the forest making shoulders tense and hands reach instinctively for weapons. Smoke curled weakly from the campfires below while the wounded were treated in strained silence. Nobody spoke too loudly anymore.
Not after what Alistair had done.
Or what had happened through him.
The refugees looked at him differently now. Carefully. Some with awe. Others with fear. A few avoided looking at him entirely.
Alistair noticed every single glance.
Which meant the training had already changed him.
Morning drifted slowly across the ridge in pale silver light when Asarmose summoned the leaders back to the clearing. Frost still clung to the grass beneath their boots. The air smelled of damp earth, woodsmoke, and lingering blood.
Nobody joked on the walk there.
Not even Aldric.
That alone unsettled Jones more than anything else.
