There it was. The nagging little tingle again, waking him once more.

Vardille opened his eyes, remaining motionless—he listened to his senses, looking for immediate threats. His vision slowly adapted to the darkness, but he saw nothing, he heard nothing.

The wrongness remained.

The captain sat up in his bedroll, reaching for his sword by him. Upon a second glance around the tent, he understood.

The King was missing.

He rose, picked up his clothes, did not bother about the armour, buckled up his sword and rushed out from the tent, chest physically hurt due to his heart pounding like a war drum.

Night covered the land in pitch black. Campfires had been snuffed out; no moon nor stars glistened in the sky. Vardille stared at the darkness, fear numbing his limbs. He might have just gone to relieve himself. Taking a quick walk around these woods. He found it hard to believe. The inherent wrongness rang in his mind as a bell raised for alarm, blood buzzing in his ears.

The captain tumbled towards a tall shadow at the end of the band’s camp, trying to make himself visible lest he get a spear between his ribs.

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‘Night to you, Asryd,’ he gasped. ‘Have you seen Sallan?’

‘Night to you, vinedresser. I haven’t. None came out from the tents. Is something wrong?’

‘He’s missing.’

‘He must be using the latrines.’

‘Yes. Yes, probably.’

‘So? What’s the matter?’

‘No, I … You’re right. It’s probably nothing. Good night to you.’

‘Good night to you.’

Vardille walked back to the heart of the camp until he was sure he was not seen by the northerner. Then he reached for his neck, pulling his necklace, the onyx dangling from it. He was unable to see the glow of the gemstone at night, but its warmth, he felt. Desperate, he sneaked among the camps, doing a circle, clutching the gemstone in hand. He froze when the heat of the onyx intensified slightly; Bryne must have been in that direction. Night confused him, but he could swear the latrines were in a different direction.

He did not think much. He rose, glanced about, then broke out in a sprint as fast as he could manage.

‘Vinedresser?’ the voice came from one of the night sentries, but Vardille ignored it. He called upon the power of his gemstone, concealing his trace behind, having it show the way ahead. A few half-hearted shouts followed him, but they soon died out.

He darted from one gnarled trunk onto the next, shadows around pointing out the dangers of the ground: a pit here, a stump there. Vardille made his way through the dense forest, knowing he drew closer to his King.

The gemstone got warmer and warmer.