Nolan POV
Silver Fang had not slept in days.
Neither had I.
Patrols moved in constant rotation along the borders, their presence so steady it became part of the landscape—boots crunching gravel at all hours, low voices murmuring reports, the hum of wards reinforcing themselves again and again. No one complained. No one questioned it.
I was there for a good portion of the day, visiting different border checkpoints to talk with the men on the ground and take part in patrols myself when necessary.
I needed the men to know that they weren’t in this alone. They weren’t doing busy work. We had to be on alert, we had to stay vigilant, because this wasn’t a holding pattern. It wasn’t a precaution.
We were waiting.
Not for orders. Not for confirmation.
For violence
