The bushes shivered erratically.
Rian's sword was half-drawn before the first twig cracked; Syl's spear rose on instinct; Imar's hand hovered near the knife at his hip. Frost clouded every exhale. The world held on a string.
Then—
"Hold fire! Lower your damn bows!" a voice snapped from the trees—sharp, cold, and carrying the clipped authority of someone who'd killed before.
A woman stepped into the grey light, cheeks wind-bitten, eyes like flint. The moment she saw Syl, recognition flickered—then relief that looked almost painful.
"Sylleth? By the gods—lower those things!"
Syl's shoulders sagged, relief bleeding through the tension.
Behind her, the undergrowth uncoiled and a dozen figures stepped free—fighters in mismatched armour, crossbows raised, cloaks stitched with the faint sigil of the Broken Phoenix.
