It was a sunlit day, one of those early spring afternoons when the air carries both the warmth of the sun and the chill of yesterday's breeze. The forest canopy above swayed gently, dappling the forest floor in scattered light and shadow. Beneath that leafy ceiling, lying perfectly still in the low underbrush, were two scouts of the White Army—flat to the ground, quiet as a breath.
They weren't dressed like the rest of the army, not even close. No black-and-white wool cloaks, no polished breastplates, no proud crests or gleaming helmets.
That was for men on parade routes and battlefields. These two wore plain brown and green, threadbare and dusted with dried mud, their chainmail hidden beneath loose cloth dyed to blend with the bark and moss. The metal links barely whispered when they moved, and even those whispers were rare.
A scout who made noise was a dead scout.
