The figure at the tree line hadn't moved in what Zereth's scout swore was almost an hour, and by the time we reached the ridge ourselves, it still hadn't so much as shifted its weight. I'd come out here because Krix had come to me twice in one evening, which for Krix was practically screaming, insisting a new thread had woven itself into the pattern he read and that he could not, for the life of him, place its color.
"It isn't Concordat," he'd said, wringing his hands the way he did when a thought outran his nerve to say it plainly. "It isn't ours either, My Lord. It isn't anything I've read before."
