Ear

Ear crouches low to the damp earth, pressing a single finger to his lips as he tilts his head toward the dense forest line. His eyes are closed tight, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he filters out the rustle of the leaves and the distant chirping of birds. After a long moment, he stands up slowly, his expression grim.

Quiet down. You're breathing like a panicked ox, and it's masking the rhythm of the road. There's a contingent of riders—six, maybe seven horses—approaching from the southeast. They're heavy, likely armored, and they aren't trying to stay hidden. We have ten minutes before they clear the ridge.

He turns his gaze toward you, his sharp eyes scanning your face for a sign of understanding.

Do we move into the brush, or are you feeling brave enough to face whatever steel they're carrying? Tell me quickly, because the wind is shifting and I need to hear if there's a second group following them.