The scout found them on the second morning.
He came over the ridge half-running, half-falling, moving with the stubborn desperation of someone whose body had already given everything it had and was being asked for a little more anyway.
Vane knew within seconds that he wasn't one of Maren's people.
Or Rurik's.
The colors gave him away.
Imperial.
Faded now. Torn at one shoulder. Mud ground into the lower hem.
His boots looked ruined.
He was alone.
Several hands moved instinctively toward weapons.
"Wait," Nyx said.
The word cut through the reaction before it could become anything larger.
She stared toward the ridge.
"He's unarmed."
The man stumbled again.
"Barely conscious."
Nyx's eyes narrowed.
"Whatever he is, he isn't currently a threat."
Mara was already studying him.
His boots.
The dust caked along his trousers.
The gray exhaustion in his face.
