The wind had picked up over the eastern centres as three of the strongest men currently on the continent dug quietly through moonlit soil.
Razel Acheon, sharp-eyed and steady-handed, unearthed another orb with practiced care.
Dean Godsthorn, robes rustling softly with every movement, handled the retrieved orbs with his bare hands, setting each one in a conjured containment field.
And Lord Terrace, scanning with a heightened gaze, pointed toward yet another faint pulse in the ground, about fifteen meters away.
That made eleven so far.
Two more than the dozen Razel had originally marked.
And something told all three of them — this wasn't over.
Godsthorn crouched again, fingertips gently brushing the edge of the newest unearthed orb. The expression on his face shifted from measured caution to something colder. "I don't think we're done. Not even close."
Something bordering alarm.
Lord Terrace noticed immediately.
"More than we expected?" he asked.
