The freezing, moisture-laden fog clinging to the eastern mountain ranges provided a flawless, natural shroud. Three miles outside the heavily fortified perimeter of First Prince Huang Wei's forward encampment, the dense, ancient pines stood like silent, towering sentinels. The ambient mana in the forested ravine was thick, sluggish with the cold, completely masking the microscopic, high-frequency magical fluctuations resonating near the basin floor.
Alaric stood perfectly still beneath the dripping canopy. His simple gray healer's robes shed the freezing drizzle, though the fabric clung tightly to his heavily muscled frame. He did not lean on his wooden staff. His posture was rigid, his ruby eyes tracking the invisible, arcane geometry assembling in the empty air before him.
The fabric of space rippled. It did not tear violently; it peeled back with surgical, mathematical precision.
