Chapter Sixty–seven:
The silence that followed Lucien's question was not empty; it was heavy, suffocating, and thick with the metallic ghost of a battle that the rest of the clan had not witnessed. Magnus stood like a statue of salt, his gaze anchored to the dirt floor of the meeting tent. His throat felt as though it were filled with dry ash. How could he speak of the way the air had screamed? How could he describe the sight of loyal warriors being torn apart by shadows while he lay broken?
Lucien's face kontorted, his eyes darting from the bowed heads of the survivors back to Magnus. The realization was crawling up his spine, but he refused to let it settle. He needed to hear it. He needed the world to make sense again.
"Where are the rest of them?" Lucien shouted, his voice cracking with a desperate, sharp edge that echoed off the oak pillars of the tent. "Magnus! Look at me! Where is the vanguard?"
