The informer lowered his head, saying nothing. He had seen this look before, Torvald's obsession burning hotter than reason.
"Gather the men," Torvald ordered coldly. "We ride tonight."
And with that, Torvald strode from the room, cloak snapping behind him, his mind already savoring the vengeance he believed was finally within his grasp.
...
The sun dipped low, spilling orange light across the trees as Lumberling and Liraeth's group slowed to make camp. The soldiers busied themselves with gathering firewood and setting tents, their chatter low and routine.
But Lumberling's steps faltered. A prickle ran down his spine, an instinct honed by battles and near-deaths. His hand tightened around the haft of his spear.
Something wasn't right.
He scanned the treeline, every rustle of leaves too sharp in his ears. Without his golden eagles, he couldn't confirm it, but the weight of unseen eyes pressed against his back.
