They walked back toward the tent rows, shoulders sore, backs stiff, but steps steady.
Behind them, the map on the crate fluttered once in the breeze, red markers, black lines, and one big circle drawn around the place they'd just escaped from.
The war wasn't over.
It hadn't even started properly.
—
The stars were out, but only barely. Thin clouds dragged across the sky like smoke trails, veiling the moon in dull silver. The camp was quiet now. Tired quiet, not peaceful. Fires burned low, people slept in shifts, and every shadow looked like it might move.
Lindarion sat alone near the edge of the clearing, his back against a dead tree, a plate of untouched food in his lap. The stew had gone cold.
He hadn't noticed.
Ashwing was curled in a tight ball beside him, tail flicking. His eyes were half-lidded but alert. Watching everything.
'Still too much noise,' Lindarion thought. 'Even in silence.'
