Shay cried for her father.
Lara sang lullabies, and her sobs finally faded into soft, hiccupping breaths long before the night went still. Lara's songs—low, steady, threaded with a melody from a world that no longer existed—wrapped around the child like a promise.
Sandro fought sleep like it was an enemy he could outsmart.
His jaw clenched. His back stayed stiff.
Exhaustion dragged at him hard, heavier than hunger, heavier than fear.
His eyelids dropped inch by inch until they sealed shut. The boy who swore he wouldn't break first finally surrendered to the dark.
The oil lamp in the corner sputtered its last breath and died. The hut fell into shadow, thick and close.
Outside, a few torches burned along the perimeter of the stronghold, their flames licking the air, throwing long, twitching shadows that made the bamboo walls look like they were breathing.
The door—nothing more than woven coconut leaves tied to a thin bamboo frame—creaked open with a tired groan.
