I pivot. Scan. Filter every detail—moving shadows, dust disturbances, the way light bends around solid objects.
Nothing.
The battlefield is fragmenting.
The Red Tide's structure is gone.
What's left is pockets of resistance—small clusters of Lost Ark soldiers surrounding wounded beasts, finishing them off with the grim efficiency.
But something is wrong.
My skin won't settle. A crawling sensation across the back of my neck that I've learned to trust more than my eyes.
"Oliver. My left side. Stay on it."
He moves without questioning—falling into position against my wounded shoulder, covering the angle my damaged arm can't protect.
"Where is it?" His voice cracks. He's scared.
Good.
Scared means alert.
I stop looking at the horizon. Stop scanning for shapes. The Stalker's chromatophore camouflage is too good for visual detection at range—I learned that the first time it nearly killed me.
I look down.
