"Damn it," he whispered, fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. He was lean, built like a blade, muscle stitched tight over bone, always taut with readiness. His dark, curly hair stuck to his brow, damp from the fog, and his black coat flared with every step like the wings of a waiting shadow.
He'd ventured out alone against Magnolia's command. She'd begged him not to go, whispered it, pleaded even, but his loyalty to Camille ran deeper than most understood. She was more than prophecy. She was his childhood, his guilt, his penance. And perhaps, his failure.
He pressed forward along a narrow ravine, boots crunching over scattered stone. The Callahan territory was vast, bordered by ruins of forgotten empires and magic older than blood. Somewhere beyond this ridge, Camille was out there. And Sterling would find her, he had to.
He crested a slope, scanned the basin below,
Then stopped cold.
The wind shifted. Not east. Not west. It came from behind.
A twig snapped.
