The last light of day filtered through the trees in amber shafts, casting long shadows over the clearing. The Apache sat dormant like a sleeping beast—rotors still, cockpit dark, hull streaked with dust and char. Inigo leaned against one of the skids, helmet resting beside him on a folded tarp.
He stared into the dying embers of a small campfire.
It had been a long day.
Between the impromptu test flight, the ambush, and the rescue, he hadn't had a moment to breathe. But now, in the hush of twilight, his mind turned toward the next step—returning to Ironmark.
He reached for his canteen and took a swig of water, then checked his wristwatch.
It was nearly 1900 hours.
"Lyra's probably wondering where I am," he muttered, though he wasn't entirely sure she'd be worried. She trusted him. That much he knew. Still, being gone this long without a word wasn't ideal.
