The sun no longer reigned from directly overhead. It had begun its slow, grudging descent toward the western edge of the world, and with it came the faintest suggestion of mercy. The heat didn't vanish—it never did—but it softened just enough that their bodies no longer felt like they were being roasted from the inside out. The air was still dry and brittle as bone, but the cruel intensity of noon had passed.
Luke rose first, stiff from hours of sitting still. His legs wobbled for a moment, the blood sluggish in them, and he groaned as he stretched his back. The sound of his joints popping was strangely loud in the empty silence. Ilyrana followed with a quieter grace, though Luke saw the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her limbs unfurled like a bowstring slowly being drawn back to tension.
"Back to it," Luke muttered, dusting grit from his trousers.
