Beta Cross shifted back into human form and dropped to his knees.
He held up a piece of fabric.
Dark cloth. Torn at the edge, still carrying the particular weave of the cloak Agnes had been wearing when she left the castle. The thorn had caught it mid-sprint.
"This confirms she was running," Cross said.
Garrett took the fabric. His fingers closed around it. The material was still carrying her scent, and the scent was still carrying fear, which meant she had been afraid for hours, and he had been standing in a courtyard watching a dragon land on an execution block while the woman he loved was running through trees with her father's men behind her.
The master mage arrived.
Theron, Darkhowler's senior mage, walked the perimeter of the clearing with both hands extended, palms down, reading the air the way a cartographer reads a map.
