The branches above blocked out the moonlight. In the dead fire below, faint red embers still breathed.
Suddenly, Winser opened his eyes.
The hood of his cloak slid from his head. Those eyes were cold in a way that had nothing to do with the gentle man who had sat across the fire at noon. Nothing in common with him at all.
His green eyes were the eyes of a hunting predator. Fixed on Kane's body. Something sharp seemed to shoot out from the depths of that green.
From lying still to sitting upright, Winser made no sound. Not one. The clothes draped over his body had been enchanted, drifting slowly through the air like water, as though submerged within slime.
He went to all fours. Palms flat against the earth. He moved forward like that, and even in so feral a posture there was something wrongly beautiful about him—like a cat that has decided to seduce its owner, except the eyes and the coiled strength of his limbs said something entirely different. Said: dangerous.
He drew closer to the man who had noticed nothing. Kane's snoring continued, sweet and untroubled.
