"Exactly," Sol muttered, starting a steady, long-striding trot in the swaying grassland. "The grand ceremony in the square wasn't just theater for any remaining eyes inside our walls. It was the signal.
While I dragged the three hundred green recruits out through the front gates to act as the visible bait, Veylara was already moving the true force of the tribe through the deep jungle to the plain."
He didn't need to look with his eyes; the newly evolved golden-silver pool in his chest was humming beautifully, its expanded sensory dominion faintly sensing the cold, heavy vibrations of the Veynar veterans waiting miles ahead.
"The remaining Zerith scouts think they are escaping a trap by running back to the treeline," Sol's voice carried a chilling, mechanical certainty through the rustling stalks. "They don't know that the treeline is already a solid wall of bone-spears.
