~Amelia~
The west edge was still a mess, and the air had that after-battle stink that always clung to wet dirt, hot sweat, and whatever little fear rogues carried around when they thought they could sneak into a territory and leave alive.
Two guards were checking the fence dip again, one scout was kneeling by the brush with a lantern, and another warrior was standing over the stolen signal horn we had pulled off the runner, like he wanted to smash it into pieces out of pure spite.
Blake returned back first, and he had the first rogue by the collar while the man stumbled like his legs were made of jelly.
Blake reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small strip of dark cloth, and attached to it was a little carved signal mark that had been cleaned but not fully hidden.
He held it up between two fingers and said, “This was sewn into the rogue’s cuff, and the mark on it is not random. It belongs to one of Leo’s outside contacts.”
