It was late evening now and the cave was quiet.
Yalira had taken the highest perch with her daggers and her amber eyes and her stillness, watching the approaches from above. Jorik had taken the lowest, sitting just inside the cave entrance with his back to the stone and his good hand resting on the haft of his blade. Vren had come down from the original camp two hours ago, summoned by Jorik through one of their relay markers, and now sat on the floor of the main chamber with the others.
Owen had told them all of it.
The fractured staff. The sixth-order resonance that had not bloomed. Wenrik's offer. The procedural withdrawal. The location, on record, in exchange for the kill not being made.
He had not edited it. He had not softened it. He owed them the whole thing.
When he finished, no one spoke for a long time.
