Luneshale Pass sword of destiny

A faint musk hung on the wind. Old. Irrelevant. He ignored it and pressed on, his ears flicking at the faint rustle of movement somewhere distant—a lizard, perhaps, or a desert mouse too insignificant to warrant his attention.

He stopped abruptly, his broad frame tense as his nose dipped toward the ground. There it was again, faint but distinct. He lifted his head, turning it slightly as he tested the wind, his nostrils flaring.

His gaze hardened.

Not prey.

Kóvictus shifted his weight and veered toward a low, gnarled shrub—a stubborn bit of chaparral clinging to life in the arid wasteland. He paused, his muscles rippling beneath his coarse coat, and raised his leg without hesitation, marking the bush with a sharp stream.

Following. Watching.

Kóvictus did not stop.