The Frostline changed its mind behind them.

  Kael felt it not as a sound, but as a shift—the way pressure changes in your ears just before a storm breaks. The fog that had swallowed the Answerers did not disperse. It thickened, folding in on itself, then began to move with intent.

  Eira felt it too. She raised her fist sharply. “Stop.”

  The scouts halted mid-step, boots scraping snow. Nima nearly walked into Kael’s back and whispered, “If this is another welcoming committee, I resign.”

  Nyros didn’t stop. He lowered his head, ears flat, and paced a half-circle around Kael, nose close to the ground. His shadow slid ahead of him, stretching and recoiling like a nervous muscle.

  Kael closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

  Iron Rhythm.

  Inhale—count.

  Exhale—anchor.

  The Mist settled, not quiet but contained, like water behind a dam. He opened his eyes.

  “They’re not following our path,” he said. “They’re cutting it.”

  Eira’s jaw tightened. “How many?”

  Kael listened. Not with his ears—with the drag in the air, the way snow resisted his breath. “Two… no. Three groups. One close. Two wide.”

  Nima blinked. “Groups. Plural. Fantastic.”

  The fog surged.

  A shape burst from it—low and fast.

  Nyros moved first.

  He launched with a snarl, shadow flaring as he collided midair with something lean and jointed. The impact rolled them both across the snow, carving a shallow trench before they separated.

  The thing rose.

  Not tall.

  Not bulky.

  All angles and tension.

  Its limbs bent the wrong way at the joints, ending in hooked claws that scraped stone when it moved. Pale plates lined its back like overlapping scales, each etched with thin grooves that pulsed faintly.

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  A Tracker.

  It hissed—not a threat, but a signal.

  Eira shouted, “Contact!”

  The scouts spread instantly. Kael stepped forward—not charging, not retreating—placing himself between the Tracker and the others.

  Low profile.

  Always.

  The Tracker lunged.

  Kael pivoted, blade turning with his hips, letting the creature’s momentum slide past him. The flat of his sword cracked against its shoulder plate—not a killing blow, just enough to disrupt.

  The Tracker skidded, recovered, and came again.

  Kael adjusted.

  First Pulse—shortened.

  He stepped inside the strike this time, shoulder brushing past chitin, blade snapping down to clip a tendon at the back of the knee. The cut was shallow. Deliberate.

  The Tracker stumbled.

  Nyros darted in, claws flashing, raking across its flank before vanishing again. The creature shrieked, a sound that tore at the air.

  The fog responded.

  Two more shapes dropped from above, landing hard on the slope behind the scouts. Snow exploded outward.

  Eira slammed her staff into the ground. Resonance flared in a tight arc, knocking one Tracker off-balance and buying precious seconds.

  “Nima!” she barked. “Left flank!”

  Nima yelped, then—surprisingly—did as told, hurling a satchel that burst midair into a cloud of fine powder. The Tracker barreled through it and stopped, shrieking as the powder ignited into blinding light.

  Nima blinked. “Huh. That worked.”

  Kael didn’t have time to comment.

  The first Tracker recovered and lunged again, faster now, adapting. Kael felt the Mist tug—let me help—and ignored it.

  He shifted stance.

  Echo Step—partial.

  Not a blink. A slip.

  He vanished from the Tracker’s immediate perception and reappeared a pace to the right, blade snapping out in a clean, precise cut that severed the creature’s forelimb at the joint.

  The Tracker collapsed, hissing violently.

  Kael didn’t finish it.

  He stepped back.

  The remaining Trackers hesitated.

  They looked at him.

  Eira noticed. “They’re recalibrating.”

  “Yes,” Kael said. “They’ve learned enough.”

  As if on cue, a deeper pressure rolled through the fog—heavier, steadier. The Trackers disengaged simultaneously, leaping back into the white and vanishing like they’d never been there.

  Silence fell again—ragged, temporary.

  The scouts panted. One laughed weakly. Another sat down hard.

  Nima stared at the fog. “I would like to officially state that being hunted is worse than being robbed.”

  Nyros trotted back to Kael, tail high, eyes bright with adrenaline. Kael crouched and pressed his forehead briefly to the fox’s.

  “Good work,” he murmured.

  Eira approached, eyes sharp. “They pulled back too cleanly.”

  “They weren’t sent to kill us,” Kael said. “They were sent to map us.”

  Her lips thinned. “And?”

  Kael stood. “And they have what they came for.”

  The Frostline hummed again—faint, distant.

  A reply.

  Far away, something answered.

  Kael felt it in his bones.

  Whatever had noticed the gate was done watching from afar.

  The hunt had begun.