The hours bled together without notice.
By the time the sun clawed its way to its highest point, the village had fallen into a fragile, uneasy calm. The wounded were sorted, the dead covered. The air still carried the faint tang of smoke, but the worst of the chaos had passed.
Levan had not lifted his gaze from the reports in his hand in what felt like hours. His gloves were smudged with soot, the parchment darkened where his fingers pressed too tightly.
He was crouching beside the burnt frame of a barn, inspecting the jagged scorch along the ground. The trail of it veered into the line of trees beyond the ridge.
"The same pattern as before," said the Captain, crouching beside him. "It wasn't merely a stray beast that wandered off course. These are the marks of the Blithe."
Levan's brow furrowed. "Then it's moving with purpose."
