He turned, some metallic spark caught in his peripheral vision. His pace and the brisk wind both halt abruptly - the silence a canvas his anticipation paints with lurid tension. Breath held fast in his throat, eyes locked on the darkness. There again, a flicker. Light cast from a hooded brand, exposing an unsheathed blade. Clumsy.
He melted into the darkness. Closer now, upwind - the smell of sweat distinct. He crept closer, naked fingertips and toes deadly silent in the moist winter mulch. The others’ progress now audible, a rhythmic subtle squelch of flat leather soles sucking free from the muck. Three sets of step; one heavily burdened, coming closer. Walking too fast to be tracking, here too soon to have been sent after him. He pulled his cloak about him and nestled into the undergrowth to wait.
—-
Tres paused. He was nervous, a mission he’d publicly deemed fatal to those foolish enough to try, had somehow become his to complete. Typical of the elders, they’d cornered him into either proving himself wrong, or becoming a martyr for a cause he’d never lost any sleep over. Each moving shadow and crackling sound from the dark made his heart feel like it was beating molten lead through his chest