The world behind Grim Hollow was breaking.
The earth shook in long, rolling pulses—like something enormous had woken beneath the soil—and the wind carried the scraped-bone hiss of a swarm running out of targets. The northern horizon was a blur of dust, broken trees, and skittering shadows.
But the workers didn't see any of that at first.
They saw only the torches—hundreds of them—moving in a frantic line away from Grim Hollow, carried by men and women whose faces were carved by exhaustion and panic. The north road was a river of fleeing bodies, a flood of terrified breath and shouts.
And in the middle of that panicked retreat—
Sergeant Tyven bellowed.
His lungs were fire. His legs threatened to give. But he kept driving the crowd forward, forcing them toward whatever safety they could still reach.
He was an Initiate, yes, but hardly some cream-of-the-crop prodigy—just another regular soldier in the Republic's army.
He was a normal man.
