Resh raised an eyebrow. “That eager to keep my company, are you?”
She snorted. “Hardly. But something’s shifting. You feel it. The rifts are changing. Quickening. My scouts saw two more opens last night to the north. Small ones, but that’s not the point. Something’s waking up out here, and I don’t think either of us should walk the rest of this stretch alone.”
Resh gave a slow nod. “You’ll follow my orders?”
“Until Stonewake,” she said, then added with a dry smile, “Unless you give one of yourpatented speeches.In which case, I’ll mutiny.”
Before he could answer, a low voice interrupted them.
“She still asleep?” Zarrek’s voice came from behind—low, even.
When Resh turned, the old warrior’s corded arms were folded tight beneath his cloak, and a smear of soot darkened one cheek. He looked less disheveled than usual, but tension gathered at the corners of his mouth.
Resh tilted his head. “She’s resting.”
Zarrek frowned. “Still?”
“She overextended,” Resh said. “Let her sleep.”
Thessia didn’t speak, but her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. She pressed her fingers to one of her braids—the one threaded with an odd violet ribbon—then turned, issuing a few quick commands to her Blades, shifting their patrol assignments for the day. Talia, her Second, called to her from a few paces away.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Thessia said over her shoulder. “Especially if your moonbeam wakes up ravenous. I’m not above bribing her with sweetbread to earn favor.”
“She might take you up on that,” Resh said, then turned back to Zarrek as the woman walked off.
“She usually wakes by now,” Zarrek murmured, watching her go. “She’s not the sleeping kind.”
Resh’s jaw flexed. “She’s earned the rest.”
Zarrek didn’t argue. He just nodded and moved on, but something in his posture had shifted —more alert. More tense. Resh stood alone a moment longer, eyes drawn toward the shaded tent tucked into the crook of the camp—where offerings began to gather like prayers no one dared speak aloud.
Woven charms. Carved stone. Beads of varying colors. A ribbon from a soldier’s braid. Pieces of belief, stacked like a shrine to her silence.
He turned away before the unease could root too deep.
By midday, the wind still carried the stale tang of metal and smoke, but beneath it the camp had begun to breathe again. Warriors mended gear, whetstones sang, and pots of broth simmered on open fires. The aftermath of battle always tasted of duty, clotting blood, and exhaustion—but the silence after a rift clung like fog: heavy, pensive, and reserved.
No doubt, the men were still hearing the varkhounds’ voices—the innocents screaming as they were devoured. The faint scent of rot and burning flesh had mostly been carried away on the winds, but the horror of it lingered.
Kailorien moved between tents with methodical purpose. It had taken most of the day to walk the perimeter of the camp. His outer coat was unfastened, sleeves rolled past his forearms as he paused at a forge to inspect the warped remnants of a shattered shield. Thessia stood beside him, jotting something onto a list with ink-stained fingers. He was grateful for her help in cataloguing damage from the battle. It freed Zarrek for other much-needed tasks in the Stone and Vanguard wings.
“If your Blades stay merged with my company until Stonewake, we’ll need to coordinate rations, supplies, and patrol shifts,” Resh murmured, handing her a salvaged sword. “I’d prefer your women lead the forward scouting. Our scouts aren’t as efficient.”
Thessia nodded. “They look green.”
“Picked up what we could in the towns along the roads to replenish our ranks. Lost many good men to ambushes and dehydration in the recent pass through the Flatlands. Menders couldn’t keep up. Reskala have runes to help them survive, but those in the Anvil wing are…” He searched for the right word.
“Human?” Thessia chuckled.
His eyes cut to her, cool as steel. “Fragile.” He looked around them. “Some have traveled with us more than a decade. Reskala age, but not like this. One blink and suddenly they bear wrinkles and gray hairs.” He glanced at Thessia. “Only six years have passed, and yet you look—”
Her grin turned wistful. “That’s how us mortals are, Shadeslayer. Not all of us can move through centuries and wear them as well as you.” She tilted her head. “Though our moonbeam is right. You do have wrinkles between your brows.”
He smiled at that. “It’s this Surface air. Bad for the skin.”
His words must have triggered a stray memory, for her own smile faded quickly. “This last Cycle of Fire was unforgiving,” Thessia frowned. “We had to hunker down in Maradryn for a while. Couldn’t risk traveling in the heat.”
Resh glanced at the sky. “This Dark comes too quickly. It shouldn’t have gotten cold this early. And the rifts…”
