They emerged from the tree line without haste.
That was worse than if they had come running.
There were six of them.
The number matched Vane's party exactly, and nothing about the way they spread across the valley made the symmetry feel accidental.
They moved like people who had walked this ground their entire lives. Their weight stayed low. Their steps found purchase without testing for it. Weapons rested easily in their hands—not raised, not hidden, simply carried with the familiarity of tools that had long ago become extensions of the people holding them.
Nothing matched.
One carried a hooked spear with a shaft cut shorter than any Imperial pattern. Another held a broad, single-edged blade whose grip had been wrapped and rewrapped until the material had darkened with sweat. There were clubs, knives, lengths of sharpened wood reinforced with bands of unfamiliar metal.
None of it had been made for ceremony.
Nothing had been polished for inspection.
