The rest of the night passed in silence
Malin couldn't sleep.
He lay curled on the edge of the bedroll, eyes open, staring into the dark canopy of the tent. His thoughts churned like a storm at sea. Even with the heat still humming under his skin from the strange dream, it wasn't fear that kept him awake—it was uncertainty.
Beside him, Lord Rhaegal remained seated, silent and unmoving, like a guardian carved from obsidian. His presence—cold yet oddly comforting—anchored Malin in place, holding back the panic threatening to rise again.
Eventually, morning arrived, dragging pale sunlight through the gaps in the tent flaps.
By the time the first voices stirred outside and the camp came back to life, Malin had just barely slipped into a shallow, restless sleep.
Outside, servants were already packing up supplies. Horses were being fed, sacks loaded, and the hushed rhythm of soldiers preparing for the road echoed faintly through the trees.
