Night passed uneasily.
Though the expedition camp had remained undisturbed, none of them truly relaxed.
The southern wilderness felt too silent.
Even the wind carried tension.
The fire had burned low hours ago, leaving only red embers glowing beneath drifting ash, yet John remained awake.
The dragon lay at the edge of camp with his head resting over crossed foreclaws, golden eyes fixed on the mountain silhouettes beyond the dark forest.
Lythriel, unsurprisingly, was still awake too.
She sat nearby sharpening her spear.
*Scrape… scrape… scrape…*
John didn't turn.
"You know," he rumbled, "I'm beginning to think you sharpen that thing for emotional support."
Lythriel stopped.
Slowly looked at him.
Then smirked.
"And I'm beginning to think you stare dramatically at horizons because you think it makes you mysterious."
Sylvara, wrapped in a travel cloak by the fire, covered a laugh.
Aerion didn't even look up from the map he was studying.
"You are both too loud."
