He walked straight to the table, rolled up one sleeve, and placed a smooth river-stone down in the center of the map, one now faintly marked with a golden sigil etched by his own mana. His eyes never left the lines carved into the parchment.
"I found a trail," he said.
Silence.
One of the older captains tilted his head. "What kind of trail?"
"Residual mana. Warped. Unstable. Like something tried to pull space into itself and couldn't quite close it afterward."
Another man—thin, silver-haired, dark rings under his eyes, shifted uncomfortably. "Tracking mana threads across the continent? That's not something anyone does."
"I'm not anyone."
"You could be leading us in circles."
"I'd rather circle than stand still."
Jaren stood in the corner with arms crossed. "I saw him test the thread. It's real."
Some of the commanders exchanged glances.
Lindarion let the silence hang.
