"Only if necessary," he reminded. "Noise is currency. Spend it when profit outweighs cost."
She gave a thin smile—half admiration, half frustration at his constant calculus—and melted into the treeline.
Draven knelt, boots sinking into damp earth. He unslung a small chisel of night-black iron and traced a looping rune across the sole of one boot, the tip leaving gentle sparks that died soundlessly. The rune's curve absorbed ambient vibration; once sealed, every footfall would register no louder than falling dust. He repeated the pattern on the other boot, then pressed both soles firmly into soil to ground the magic. A hush settled, eerie even to him; cicada buzz muted, branch creaks dulled, as though his presence swallowed sound.
