That evening, in a moonlit clearing on the lower slope of Alta-Sierra—a day's ride from Savadra—Prince Alaric sat watching the flames twist and leap, their light throwing gold and crimson shadows against the wall of the dark forest. The night air was crisp, tinged with the resinous scent of pine and the faint musk of damp earth. Somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted, and the wolves howled.
They had made camp for the night, all five hundred of them—those who had avoided the provincial road, choosing instead to slip unseen through the shadowed passes of Alta-Sierra. Others had gone by boat along the Centuria River, hugging its winding banks.
The rest traveled the road disguised as merchant caravans or families fleeing the rumored war, scattering in all directions so no one could trace their true purpose. When the time came, they would converge upon Savadra from all four cardinal points.
Across the campfire, Abel and Logan were already fussing over Lara.
