“Last year’s leaves exploded into rustling traitors under Haydn’s boots. Branches clawed at his cloak and he ducked, swiping away pale gray webs of moss. Gorawen’s fingers were wrapped around his left hand. A moonstone gleamed from his right. The dim light barely lifted the shadows as Haydn tucked the stone beside a log. Another flash of soaked moonbeams lurked on the edge of his sight. Half-covered, they’d not reveal their path to those following while marking a clear trail for his and Gorawen’s return and keep their own direction sure.”