The air in the forest was thick with an unnameable dread, a chill that had nothing to do with the night's deepening cold. Kael felt it in his bones, a raw, primal warning that clawed at his chest, more insistent than any premonition of Marcus's approaching army. It was a serpent coiling in his gut, whispering of betrayal and loss. He glanced at Ronan, who, despite his outwardly calm demeanor, sharpening his claws against a jagged rock, radiated a tension that mirrored Kael's own. The rhythmic scrape of stone on bone was the only sound, a stark counterpoint to the tempest raging within Kael.
"I need to run," Kael said, the words bursting forth, an urgent demand from his very core.
Ronan's movements stilled. The scraping ceased. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze snapping to Kael, disbelief etching lines around his eyes. "Now?" Ronan's voice was sharp, edged with a desperate practicality. "Marcus's army is practically at our doorstep."
