Most of the mercs were sprawled around the room, asleep or doing a very convincing impression of it. Kael was snoring.
Rythe lay still but not relaxed, one hand curled near her spear. Stitch had passed out half-on a crate with a bottle still tucked in the crook of his arm.
He stepped over someone's boots and moved toward the back wall—
Leaning against the far stone post, hood half-down, silver-blonde hair catching the bare light like frost.
But her eyes tracked him the moment he entered.
Didn't meet her gaze.
He sat near the wall, pulled his coat tighter, and settled in like nothing had happened at all.
The silence stretched.
Then, quietly, barely audible.
"…You smell different."
His jaw flexed once. "I washed my face."
Luneth didn't press. Didn't ask what he'd done. What he'd changed. What was humming faintly behind his skin now.
She just turned her head back toward the wall.
And after a long pause, she said, "Good."
Then she closed her eyes.
And Lindarion let the silence hold them both.
Lindarion woke to steel being oiled.
Just there. Rhythmic. Intentional.
When he opened his eyes, the camp was already moving.
Kael stood near the fire pit, now reignited, strapping armor across his chest, lips pressed into a line. Velna moved without sound across the floor, checking knives, vanishing them into places that shouldn't be able to hide steel.
Rythe was sharpening her spear again, long even strokes without pause.
Luneth was gone from her post. So was Lira.
Sylric passed him a lukewarm cup of something that smelled like boiled roots and contempt.
Lindarion drank it anyway.
Across the room, Stitch was wrapping his wrists with reinforced cloth and muttering something about bone-setting angles. Mekir sat alone, watching nothing, green eyes faintly reflective in the half-light.
They weren't playing mercenary.
Lindarion stood, rolling out his shoulders. The mana inside him stayed quiet. Not heavy anymore, just present. Balanced. Ready to burn when called.
He stepped toward the table where the maps had been laid out the night before.
"Everyone move by noon," he said. "We're crossing the ridge by dusk."
Kael looked up. "Scouts first?"
Velna nodded. No questions.
Derran just finished buckling his boots and grabbed his blades.
Luneth reappeared at the far door, silent, hood back up. She met his gaze for a second. No nod. Just acknowledgment.
Lira was behind her. Already geared, coat lined in dark leather, expression unreadable.
Sylric yawned hard enough to crack his jaw. "Hells, you're all efficient."
"This isn't a field trip," Kael muttered.
Lindarion looked around the room.
No one needed motivation.
No one asked if they'd survive.
Like they expected this to be ugly.
Sylric dropped his half-empty cup on the edge of the table and rolled out the map like he'd done it a hundred times in other lifetimes.
Every merc in the room shifted subtly.
He tapped the eastern range, just below a bend of cliffs sketched in black ink and red notes.
"This is your window," he said. "Base of the range, near a collapsed silver mine. One of the last functional paths through the ravine is here. If they're carving on the stone, they'll need access to open faces, not buried ones."
Kael stepped closer. "What are we looking for?"
"Chisel lines. Deep etchings. Anything that doesn't belong on natural rock. Big, geometric. If it looks like something you wouldn't build a house on—it's probably a rune node."
"Magical?" Velna asked.
"No. Worse," Sylric said. "It's physical. Which means they're hiding it with terrain, not glamours. No shimmer. No glow. You're scouting stone—not energy."
Rythe folded her arms. "That narrows it."
"Good. You've got the eyes for it."
Sylric pointed again. "Split into three sweeps. North ridge. Lower basin. Southwest crawlspace near the river."
Velna was already packing. Derran followed without hesitation.
"You find carvings, mark them. Do not engage. You run, you return, you report."
Stitch raised a brow. "And if it's guarded?"
"Then you remember what you're getting paid for."
Lindarion stayed quiet.
Because this was Sylric's rhythm now, tight, controlled, military without polish.
The mercs didn't joke.
Kael nodded once. "We move."
Velna, Derran, and Rythe broke off immediately, packs light, blades in easy reach.
Lindarion watched them disappear out the back trail.
Then turned to Sylric.
"You think they'll find it?"
Sylric shrugged. "If it's still there."
"Then we're already late."
With the scouts gone, the room felt thinner.
Not quieter. Just… measured. Like everyone had started breathing slower, saving energy for later.
Lindarion stood at the central table, gear already packed, coat fastened, light armor buckled beneath, his satchel lined with rations, mana potions, and two scrolls he hadn't dared use.
Ashwing was out there somewhere, circling above the range.
They wouldn't call him until it was necessary.
Until they were necessary.
Sylric adjusted his cloak, then muttered, "We move in twenty. Light and silent. No flare magic unless it's a kill command."
Lira strapped her secondary blade across her back and checked the inner sleeve of her coat, where the smoke-dagger rested.
Luneth was already geared, hood up, sleeves tight to the wrist, breath calm. She hadn't said much since dawn. But her steps didn't hesitate. Her eyes missed nothing.
Mekir stood alone by the far post. Still. Watching the door. Scaled fingers brushing a worn edge of leather armor.
Kael and Stitch loaded the heavier packs, talking just loud enough to coordinate weight, not enough to distract. Neither smiled.
This wasn't the energy of a quest.
It was the beginning of a pursuit.
Lindarion scanned the group once more. Seven left behind while three scouted ahead.
If anything happened out there, he'd know.
But he couldn't act on instinct anymore. Not like before.
He tapped the map once.
Then folded it into his coat.
"Movement order: Velna's squad returns, we regroup at marker twelve. If contact is made, I want eyes up and weapons drawn—not waved. You see a rune? Call it. You see masks? Kill them."
Lira gave the smallest nod.
Luneth just moved to his left.
Sylric rolled his shoulders. "Finally. A mission where the plan doesn't start with 'wing it.'"
Lindarion stepped toward the door.
And the hunt resumed.