"The story writes itself," she said softly.
Before she closed the map display, she added one last mark.
Around Ashen River she at last drew four small sigils: the cog of the League, the raven, the coin, the sunburst.
Above them all, she left a fifth symbol hovering—an outline of a tree for Silvarion.
"Let them all fight for the drowning man," she murmured. "We will own the shore they're swimming for."
A day's march from the Ashen River high camp, the ravine looked like a safe place to hide.
By night, its walls rose steep and dark, cutting off the wind. Thin motes of mana drifted over the cracked stone like fireflies without colour. Someone who did not know better might mistake them for marsh lights.
The Kharadorn strike team knew better. They had walked through enough tainted places to recognise a dungeon's breath even when it tried to be gentle.
"Set up here," the captain said, voice low.
