The darkness thickens along the bark of the fallen log. I settle back into a low crouch between two split furrows, flintlock resting across my knee. Beside my boot, the amber resin and mica sliver glint faintly in the dim night draft. Below, the dark clover remains still, untouched by passing quarry. I extend my senses outward, head tilted slightly, measuring each minute rustle in the undergrowth. A low, gravelly click rolls deep in my chest. This perimeter stands watched.