The [Shadow-Cloak] expired the moment Elian's boots hit the frozen mud of the Northern trenches.
The dark fabric gave a sad little fizz, sparked once, and disintegrated into a handful of fine grey ash that blew away in the freezing wind.
Cassian stopped, brushing a speck of ash from his chest. He stared at Elian's now-empty hands, his brow furrowing. "Your cloak just dissolved."
"Single-use alchemical weave, Sire," Elian lied smoothly, mourning his wallet. "Highly volatile. Very expensive. It burns itself out after a set time to prevent the enemy from capturing the technology."
Cassian seemed to accept the logic, though his eyes lingered on the spot where the fabric had been.
The Prince stepped down into the trench.
"Sire!"
General Marcus came sprinting down the trench line, flanked by four panicked guards. The old veteran looked like he was on the verge of a cardiac event. His armor rattled with his frantic breathing.
