At the northern outpost near the lower Thalven River, inside the command tent.
Dorian folded the letter he had just read and set it down on the table.
Outside, the clash of swords and shields and the thunder of training drills rang out ceaselessly.
A sharp contrast to the chill that blanketed the tent an oppressive coldness that seemed capable of freezing anyone bold enough to step inside.
"Still no word from Keiran?" Rowan asked, stepping closer.
Dorian gave a slight shake of his head.
Ever since that brief encounter with Magnus's guard in a town near the river's upper reaches, all traces had vanished. But how could a man, flesh and bone, vanish as if the wind itself had carried him away—without a single trace?
Leaving not even a footprint behind.
A faint furrow formed between Dorian's brows.
Rowan crossed his arms, thoughtful.
"The one helping Magnus… clearly knows us too well."
Dorian's gaze grew colder. What Rowan said echoed his own thoughts.
