The night did not give them time to settle.
The fire was stamped out. Cloaks were pulled tight. Orders passed in hand signals and murmurs that never rose above the wind. Frost Fire moved first, already spreading along the ridgeline like shadows reclaiming their ground.
Aya swung into the saddle without ceremony.
The warmth of moments past—of hands steadying armor, of words meant to give comfort—was gone. There would be time to feel it later. If there was later.
The pass rose ahead of them in a narrow, broken spine of stone, its walls half-collapsed, its watchfires sparse and uneven. Too few. And too confident it seemed. Men who believed the road beneath them was already theirs.
Aya lifted her fist.
They stopped as one.
Below, the enemy camp stretched thin across the choke point—makeshift palisades, drowsy sentries, banners hanging slack. Western colors.
They had not been expected to come at this time.
