She could feel many auras, strong and twisted—not the soft pulse of nature magic, but sharp, rigid energies. Soldiers trained to hunt people like her.
"They're waiting for something," Lira whispered.
Renkai sniffed the air, ears swiveling. "For someone. There's a scent on the wind. Old. Cold. Someone important is coming."
Then they saw it. A black carriage, no horses pulling it—only shadows curling around its wheels. The air itself seemed to freeze as it neared the camp. The scouts, who only moments ago were speaking in low murmurs, fell completely silent.
A figure stepped out. Cloaked entirely in black, with a mask like bone covering their face. The commander.
Lira's heart thumped painfully in her chest. She didn't recognize the figure—but the aura that rolled off him was heavy, the kind that pressed down on the lungs and forced submission.
Thalanir whispered, "They're preparing for war."
