"Enough for what? We lost the name."
"Enough for a hunt," Lyan said. He stepped closer to the corpse, studying the charred lines of the rune, the curling smoke. His gaze flicked to the empty space behind the man's eyes, and something in his own hardened further—as if filing away the image where it would never dull. "We know their creed, their symbol, and their reach. We push that knife back up the arm toward the hand that wields it."
Ravia folded her arms tight, feeling chill seep through leather. "And when the mole feels us closing?"
"Let them," Lyan answered. He turned, cloak whispering over the flagstones, eyes settling briefly—too briefly—on the swell of Ravia's chest heaving under the heat-fret. He forced his gaze to Xena. "Fear makes people clumsy."
(You look at her like she's a candle on a long night) Lilith teased inside his mind.
