The forest pressed in around us like a living thing, its branches clawing at the sky while shadows thickened beneath the canopy. Each step forward was muffled by the loam beneath my boots, but I couldn't shake the sensation of being followed. The bond between the triplets and me hummed with a low, uneasy vibration, like a chord stretched too tight.
Dorian walked at my side, his eyes sharp, scanning the underbrush with the watchfulness of a predator. Marcus ranged ahead, his posture taut, a warning in every line of his body. Tobias, ever attuned to currents of energy I couldn't always sense, kept close to my shoulder, his hand brushing mine when the silence became too heavy.
We were tracking the remnants of the rogues who had fled after the battle at the Flameborn ruins, hoping to uncover who—or what—commanded them now. Yet every trail seemed to double back on itself, every scent muddied by a power that tasted of ash and cold iron.
