The night had started like any other. Quiet. Still. Routine.
A patrol, a checklist, a system meant to ensure safety. Luke and Ilyrana had followed it by the book. First checkpoint—cleared. Second—empty, too empty. Third—more of the same.
Then came the fourth.
And everything went to hell.
It began with Ilyrana's whisper—"I saw them." Not a maybe this time. Not a hunch. Certainty. People were watching them, cloaked and hidden beneath the forest's camouflage, so expertly masked that only elven eyes could have picked them out. Luke had spotted them too—barely—because years of street magic trained him to notice the sleight of hand, the smallest of motions.
Then came the arrow.
Not theirs. The enemy's.
Launched in silence, cutting through the wind with murderous intent. Ilyrana had seen it just in time—just enough to throw herself at Luke and knock him flat, just enough to save his life.
They hadn't blown the whistle first. They hadn't drawn their blades first.
The watchers did.
