“It misfired!” Mr. Dickerson hisses back, the spell of his contemplation shattered along with whatever crossbow component has embedded itself in his hand. The sibilant curse that follows doesn’t translate to Trade, bitten off short when he realizes the footsteps he’d heard before have gone silent.

He stands frozen, listening, right hand gripped by the left.

Richie will see the precise instant his breath condenses into fog before the tent beside him is bisected by a razor slash of ice and freezing wind, frost bristled up from the ground in a line that leaves Dickerson crackling with rime up his flank. There’s a Venatori mage already scrambling away from the far end in search of cover, sweeping up equipment pell-mell from a table as he goes.