Rhyka didn't waste time after the meeting. While the mercenaries prepared to leave, sharpening blades and rechecking gear, he slipped back to his spot at the edge of camp, dropped onto the cold ground, and shut out the noise.
He pulled his breath into rhythm, steady and deep, until the camp's bustle blurred into nothing. Golden threads unraveled before his mind's eye, his Martial Vision spreading like a net.
The fog of the devil beast domain resisted him, as always. Heavy, choking, like a wet cloth pressed against his face. His Vision could pierce it, but only with focus, every inch he expanded took effort, like forcing light through thick mud.
Still, he pushed. The longer he held it, the sharper the effect. Faint movements became clear. Intent glimmered in lines of gold. Even the smallest twitch of a mercenary's hand as they strapped a buckle showed itself in his perception.
It was progress. Small, but progress.
He was so deep in it that at first he didn't notice Nero approach.
