The valley lay in silence when Ravenclaw marched into it, but the silence was wrong. Evelyn could taste the tension in the air, the stillness before the strike. Mist clung to the ground, thick enough to blur the shapes ahead, and every instinct told her this was not emptiness. It was a trap waiting to snap.
At her side, George's shoulders were stiff, his eyes sharp as they swept the ridges above them. Behind her, the younger warriors kept formation, their breaths steady though Evelyn could sense their unease. They were brave, but they had never fought an enemy like this before. Fji's mercenaries were not bound by wolf honor. They would fight with trickery and cruelty, with blades dipped in poison and rituals of blood.
Damien had remained behind in Ravenclaw. His blessing had been quiet but firm, his hand trembling as he gripped hers. She carried that moment in her chest now, a weight and a comfort both. He had trusted her to lead them. She would not break that trust.
