Zarius smelled it before the first charcoal-smudged plume even breached the horizon. It wasn't just the cedar-sweet tang of campfires or the greasy stench of roasting meat, this was different. Bitter. Acrid. It smelled like canvas, sweat, and that strange metallic tang the Velkyn carried with them, clinging to the air like something that refused to leave. Beside him, the unit slowed, horses huffing great plumes of silver mist into the freezing air, their ears pinned back in a universal language of "something is horribly wrong."
They were supposed to be returning to a camp of orderly rows and the boring, comforting rhythm of the watch. Instead, the perimeter was a mess.
"Formations," Zarius snapped, already lifting his sword into position.
