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The rain seems to be easing again.

For most of the morning, you and the warriors of your patrol have taken shelter under the rocky overhang while rain lashed the surrounding woodland. As the last few drops patter overhead, you look up at the sky—gray and unchanging—beyond the forest canopy.

It has been two days since your father rode to do battle against Zhan-Ukhel and the Tribe of the Black Wolf, but you will not share in his victory. At his orders, you find yourself patrolling the nearby forests, and as the clouds swirl overhead, glory has never seemed so far away. "We're wasting our time," you mutter under your breath for perhaps the tenth time this morning, and glance at Kral, who stands beside you.

The aging weaponsmaster looks miserable as he pulls a hand over his face, wiping the water from his bedraggled mustache. "What now?" he asks, holding a hand out to check that the rain has ceased. "Shall we get moving again?"