The air was thick enough to cut with a blade.
Twelve men stood at the forest's edge another twelve behind Cyrus, each one painted with the same red mark—three long stripes clawed across their chests like a brand of belonging. Their hair was tied back with bones and feathers, their skin glistening with sweat and dust. They looked wild, but not stupid. The kind of men who had seen blood often enough to know how it stains.
Their eyes swept across the village. Children hid behind huts. The firelight flickered on spear tips. The villagers' laughter from moments ago had vanished completely. Only the distant hiss of burning wood remained.
Valen stepped forward first, placing himself between the strangers and Ophelia. His hand tightened around his spear until his knuckles turned white. He said quietly, "Ophelia, go inside."
But she shook her head, her eyes never leaving the men. "No. I'm not leaving you. You'll just do something reckless."
Valen's jaw flexed. "Please."
