The forest lay steeped in darkness, broken only by the faint shimmer of starlight and the pale glow of the moon filtering through the canopy.
Leaves stirred in the cool night breeze, their soft rustling weaving an eerie whisper that drifted between the trees.
The entourage had made camp beside a narrow stream. After the wolf attack, their commander had ordered a descent along the alternative path into the valley.
Now, deep into the night, a lone campfire burned at the heart of the encampment. Its flames flickered low, wood crackling and popping as sparks rose and vanished into the dark.
The knights gathered around it, their faces half-lit, half-lost in shifting shadows.
Among them sat Rafe—the only one injured from the encounter—his head wrapped in thick bandages.
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning towards the fire for warmth, before asking for water.
"Here, take mine."
