Page 25 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
He clicks his radio once—signal only—and we pull back, low and fast. I count each step like a prayer. Only when we’re behind a fallen spruce does he speak again.
"Could be a scout."
His words are barely more than breath, but the instinct that drives them is harsh and visceral. Something about the subtle change in the clearing's energy, maybe the prickling chill that creeps down my spine or the fleeting scent in the air that doesn’t belong, triggers the warning.
Nate continues. "Could be a test. Either way, we stay down. Wait for confirmation."
"You think they’re pushing south already?"
He nods, jaw tight. "They’re too close. We won’t get another warning. We’re the warning."
His voice holds a steel edge, but beneath it—something else. Protective. Fierce.
I watch him in profile, jaw set, eyes narrowed on the ridge. The wind ruffles the edge of his collar, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s stone and focus, every muscle wired for action, and something about that steadiness unsettles me. It’s the kind of composure that belongs to men who don’t break, and maybe that’s why it shakes me more than the threat ahead.
The pull hits again—an ache settling low, warm, unwelcome. Not just want, but the danger inside it, curling close and fast, like a spark thrown on dry tinder. The slope of his shoulders, the unyielding line of his mouth, the furrow between his brows—they all draw me in. My fingers itch to smooth that crease away, to ease the weight from his skin as if it might take the weight off mine. I hold back. I can’t. A touch like that would betray too much, too soon.
Reckless impulse surges—memories of burned hands, lessons unlearned. My fingers twitch, half-lift, then fist hard against my thighs. The tension stays locked in my body, every nerve tight with restraint. I won’t give in to it. Not yet.
Still, the space between us hums with something I don’t want to name. It coils through the silence, a current that dares me to lean closer, to forget the walls I’ve spent years rebuilding.And that’s the danger of him—not the rifle in his hands or the shadows on the ridge, but the way he makes me want to drop my guard.
I inhale slowly. The air is colder now, edged with the faint tang of snow covered earth. It slides over my skin with a clammy chill, clinging like a warning not yet spoken—but it isn’t the only thing making me shiver.
"You okay?" he asks, eyes still scanning the ridge.
"Fine."
He looks over. "You weren't very convincing."
"I wasn't trying to be."
A half-smile. "Then I’ll believe you. For now."
We wait. Minutes drag, each one stretched to the breaking point by silence and the breath we don't fully exhale. My calves start to ache from holding tension, and my fingers twitch, itching for movement—any movement.
The earth beneath me feels unforgiving, the crusted snow gritty and uneven beneath my palms, flecked with bits of bark and windblown debris frozen in place—every pressure point a grounding reminder that we’re exposed, vulnerable, and poised for something we can’t yet name.
I feel the weight of Nate’s presence beside me—solid and alert—and it steadies me, even as part of me resents how much I’ve come to count on that. No more movement.
But something’s changed. The air feels loaded. The ridge isn’t just a threat anymore. It’s a line; something not to be crossed.
I don’t know what comes next. But I know this much—silence won’t take me again. I won’t vanish into frost and shadow like before. Not without a fight. And not without him.
10
NATE
The ridge is still too quiet.
Wren moves beside me, just enough to draw my attention. The air between us is crisp with wood smoke and the mineral bite of snow. Beneath that familiar scent rides something harsher, a static edge that tastes like ozone before a storm. It is the kind of pressure that builds in your bones when the world itself braces for fracture.
Her sleeve brushes mine, and I catch the subtle rustle of fabric, quiet but enough to cut through the silence like a thread pulled too tight. Her focus is on the slope ahead, jaw set, breath even but shallow. She's holding steady, but I catch the faint twitch in her fingers, like her body’s fighting the stillness.
I know the feeling. My own muscles are strung tight beneath the layers, keyed up and ready to move. We're both waiting on a ghost we can feel but can’t yet see.
I tap twice against her thigh, a silent signal, and tilt my head west. There’s a narrow chute between two outcrops, barely visible, but it funnels wind like a pipe organ. Anyone moving through it will make noise.
She nods once, glides without sound, and I catch it again, that instinct of hers. No hesitation, no wasted motion.Immediate, fluid action, as if her body carries the terrain in its marrow, moving with a precision that bypasses thought entirely. That kind of instinct isn’t taught; it’s carved by survival, formed by years of scars and storms. I bank the observation for later, but it doesn’t fade. It clings like a burr under cloth, sudden and unsettling in ways I don’t yet have language for, but can already feel snagging at me.
