The night had teeth.
Not the kind that bit cleanly, but jagged, lingering, gnawing at every nerve until sleep was a memory and rest nothing more than a cruel idea. I could feel it all around me as I lay in the healer's tent, the world outside restless, bristling with unease.
Men whispered beyond the canvas walls, their voices fractured and sharp like stones scraping together. Every so often came the crackle of firewood, the hiss of sparks breaking into the dark, or the hard rhythm of boots on earth. No one in this camp trusted the night anymore. Not after what they had seen. Not after the circle where one man rose and another fell but didn't quite stay gone.
And I—I trusted it least of all.
