Southward Winds
The morning haze still clung to the trees when the first golden eagle returned, wings wide and silent as it dipped low above the clearing.
Its cry rang sharp, slicing through the air like an alarm bell.
Lumberling looked up from the carcass of the boarhound they had just felled, its bulk still twitching in death. The blood hadn't even cooled. Threads of purple essence unraveled from the corpse, drawn toward Aren like mist seeking a vessel.
The younger warrior grimaced but stood tall as the energy surged into him, sweat clinging to his brow.
Then a second eagle came.
No cry this time, just silence and urgency. It glided low and cleanly dropped a bundled cloth from its talons. The strip fluttered once before landing beside Lumberling's boots.
Red-coded.
He knelt, fingers already brushing the symbol.
A sighting.
Human.
Armed.
Southward quadrant.
Fifty-plus.
Sengolio armor.
Not scouts.
Not survivors.
Soldiers.
