The Nightfang guard’s hand dropped to his knife first. It was a small movement, half‑conscious—the kind of thing a body did when old arguments started to feel like old fights. But the Blackmoon scout across from him mirrored it without thinking, fingers closing around his own hilt, and the air between the two ranks went from tense to brittle. “Say that again,” the Nightfang snarled. He was one of Voran’s farm‑line wolves—broad‑shouldered, hair cropped, rough, short, dark leathers scuffed from work more than parade. His name was Corin. He’d been mostly quiet since they’d left the last village, jaw clenched around things he didn’t say. The Blackmoon scout was leaner, older, with a patch of silver in his beard. Deren. He’d spent most of the morning complaining about the state of the road and the state of Nightfang maps. Now he lifted his chin, eyes flaring amber. “I said,” Deren repeated, enunciating each word, “it’s convenient, isn’t it? All these symbols cropping up in Nightfang
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