When dawn comes it’s cold and pale over the northern woods. Evan rises from his camp, stiff from the ambush but determined. The fire has burned down to embers, and the forest is hushed, as if holding its breath.

He moves through the trees, following the old paths that twist toward the ruins. The air feels heavier, charged with lingering magic. He knows Jadon’s touch when he feels it. The scholar always left traces.

Then he sees it. Etched into the bark of an ancient oak is a ward faint, but ...