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Whitethorn was close to Cairn’s tent.
Soon now, they’d get the signal.
Lorcan and Gavriel steadied their
breathing, readying their power. It thrummed
through them, twin waves cresting.
But death began beckoning elsewhere in
the camp.
Closer to them. Moving fast.
Lorcan scanned the brightening sky, the
line of the first tents. The entrance with the
guards.
“Someone’s making a move this way,”
Lorcan murmured to Gavriel. “But
Whitethorn’s still over there.”
Fenrys. Or Connall, perhaps. Maybe
Essar’s sister, who he’d never liked. But he
wouldn’t give a shit about that if she hadn’t
betrayed them.
He pointed north of the entrance. “You take
that side. Be ready to strike from the flank.”