The waywatcher kindreds hold the loneliest duty in Athel Loren. They dwell apart at the forest's eaves for years upon years — whole generations, as mortal men would count them — keeping watch over the hidden ways and the waystones that bind the forest's magic. Every road toward the wood, every ford and game-trail and smugglers' track, passes beneath their eyes, and every traveller upon it is weighed: this one a pedlar who will pass by unknowing; this one a woodcutter who will not.
Years of stillness distil an archer into something eerie. A waywatcher's shaft finds the eye-slit, the gorget's gap, the heartbeat between two ribs, at ranges where the bow's voice never carries; a man simply folds, and the column marches on until the next man folds too. Armies have turned back from Athel Loren's borders without a single soldier able to say who had been killing them. That is the whole of the waywatchers' art. The forest's first defence is the certainty that settles on trespassers out at the treeline — the slow understanding that they were dead the moment they arrived, and had merely not yet been informed.
Order of battle
