The forest had gone still. The only sound left was the soft trickle of the river beside the camp and the whisper of crickets in the grass. The moon hung full and golden, its reflection trembling faintly on the rippling water.
Darenn sat at the bank, his boots half-submerged, fishing line slack. The others were asleep a few tents away, their quiet breathing blending with the night breeze.
He should have been focused—alert, vigilant—but the calm pressed against him like a lullaby. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to breathe.
Then a faint rustle cut through the quiet.
Darenn's muscles tensed. In one motion, he set the fishing rod aside and clenched his fist, stone dust gathering around his knuckles. But before he could swing, a familiar voice hissed, "It's me again, don't attempt to punch me!"
He chuckled, no longer that uptight. "What is it now, Kalista?"
