The moon hung low over the valley, swollen and pale, a silver coin hammered against the heavens. Its cold light spilled across the jagged ridges, etching the world in long shadows and sharp edges. The air had cooled into a biting stillness; frost clung to the grass like shards of glass, crunching faintly beneath Leo's boots with every reluctant step. Each exhale curled into the night like smoke, dissolving into the silence.
His body was a litany of aches. Every muscle groaned from the day's climb, every joint stiff as though iron pins had been driven through them. His breath was shallow, rasping, his chest still raw from ash and battle. But deeper than the exhaustion, more relentless than the ache in his bones, was the unease gnawing at him, the constant, patient stirring of the fragment lodged beneath his ribs.
It had grown restless in the night.
You walk in circles, little bearer.
