Levan stepped out of the tent, the chill of the night biting at his face. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze, casting long, wavering shadows across the encampment. His mind, stubbornly clinging to the memory of Ilaria's flushed face refused to stay focused, but he snapped himself back because command came first.
The scouts were already gathered, their faces tight with tension that Levan could feel as a familiar weight pressing against his chest. One of them stepped forward, holding a worn, wet bag that looked as though it had been dragged through a dozen storms.
"We found traces of the Blithe along the clearings," the scout reported. "Dead trees, wilted grass and shadows of darkness lingered along its path. They were scattered."
Levan took the bag without a word and shook it. Its contents rattled as they fell on the ground. Empty bottles, crushed herbs, and remnants of something that once had purpose. "And this?" he asked.
