The moon hung high above the endless flat of the Wasteland, pale and cold, casting its silver light upon the slow, winding column of men and beasts. Midnight had come, and with it the silence of the dead hours. Even the faint whisper of the wind seemed hesitant to disturb the march, as if the land itself were holding its breath, watching the tide of humanity crawling across its barren skin.
Luke, guiding near the front, lifted his gaze to the pale disc in the heavens. It gleamed like a watchful eye, marking this midnight stance, this threshold where one day gave way to another in the Wasteland. He pulled his hood tighter and leaned slightly to look behind. What he saw was exactly what he had feared.
Many were struggling.
