Tonar's laugh still echoed for a moment, harsh and joyless, before fading into the crackle of the embers. The camp fell back into a weary vigilance. The brief attack had left behind it the stench of blood and upturned dust. Everyone returned to their posts, but their movements were slower, their gazes heavier. The night itself seemed weighed down, saturated with waiting and a diffuse menace.
Élisa felt the weight of every second. The gem's energy flowed through her, a warm current mending internal tears, but it could do nothing against the exhaustion of the soul. She remained standing, leaning against a wooden post, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the barricades. That was where Zirel had vanished. That was where, sooner or later, the real storm would come.
Tonar came to stand beside her, silent. His sword was sheathed, but his hand never left the hilt. Together, they made a strange bulwark: the young woman, stubborn by sheer will, and the veteran, worn down but unyielding.
