The wind howled above the jagged ridges overlooking Greystone as General Darion Bragg flew across the skies, his cloak billowing like a battle banner behind him. His beast—Stormrazor, a massive thunder-plumed war eagle—sliced through the air with effortless grace.
But Darion's eyes narrowed, and his knuckles whitened around the reins.
"Something's wrong," he muttered.
A flash of silver flickered across his irises—Precognitive Pulse, his personal skill. It tingled in the back of his mind like static, whispering danger, loss, and blood.
"The envoys..."
Stormrazor let out a shrill cry as Darion yanked the reins hard. He banked, veering from his return course and racing back toward the mine site.
The carnage was fresh.
Lucas and Elira stood amidst the broken remains of the enemy encampment, the last of the blood still steaming on the rocky soil. The bodies of Darion's spies lay motionless, cleanly executed—silent testament to Lucas's blade and Elira's arrows.
