Morning came slow and cold, the kind that clung to the air and the bones alike. Luke stirred awake beneath the thin cover of his cloak, the lingering smell of last night's fire still faint in the breeze.
And there she was.
Ilyrana sat cross-legged on a smooth rock, bow in hand and eyes on the trees, her posture as straight and steady as if she'd been carved from the same stone she rested on. She hadn't moved all night.
Luke didn't need to ask—he knew. She had been awake the entire time, keeping her quiet vigil.
"Morning," he muttered, his voice still heavy with sleep.
Her eyes flicked toward him briefly, and she nodded once before turning back to the treeline.
There was no point lingering. Without another word, Luke began packing up their things—rolling the bedrolls tight, scattering the ashes of their fire, checking the straps on Vartha's harness. Within minutes, their small campsite was gone, nothing but a patch of disturbed earth left behind.
