MARKED BY THE SILENCED WOLF
They were looking toward the southern pass.
“Leo!” I called out, running toward him.
The small inventor turned, his face streaked with soot and tears. When he saw us, he let out a sob of relief, but it was quickly replaced by a look of sheer terror.
“Winnie! Cassian! Thank the stars you’re back,” Leo gasped, pointing toward the horizon. “We thought the Star was the end, but it was just the distraction. Look at the pass!”
I looked. In the distance, where the southern mountains met the sky, a line of orange fire was creeping across the snow. It wasn’t the natural fire of a forest blaze. It was the rhythmic, pulsing light of a thousand steam engines.
Bab Populer