The camp was restless with dawn. Somewhere beyond the tents, steel clashed against steel as soldiers practiced their forms—anything to quiet the waiting.
Lanterns hung low, burning thin trails of smoke into the stale air. A sketched map of the northern stronghold lay stretched across the table, its edges pinned by daggers and cups. Rian's hand hovered over it, tracing routes through the outer walls, lips pressed thin in thought.
Everyone knew there was no room for mistakes. No time for hesitation.
Yara stood a little apart from the table, arms crossed, listening. The flicker of firelight caught the edge of her new scar—the faint silver line curving down her temple, a reminder of the things she'd had to do to keep living.
She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Kellan's smile—the kind he wore when he thought she might break. It haunted her still, even now that he was ash and memory.
