The attack came when the camp could no longer tell if it was night or morning.
The fire had guttered to ash, the moon a thin sickle of light. Most of the survivors had sagged into restless half-sleep, bodies curled inward like they could shield themselves from hunger, from grief, from her.
Aria had not closed her eyes. Not once. Her arms ached from holding Kael, but she would not lay him down, not when his fever burned hotter, not when his chest stuttered with every shallow breath.
The mark purred steady beneath her ribs, patient. He is slipping. And they would let him go. But I… I would not.
Her tears had dried to salt on her cheeks when the first sound came.
A crunch in the leaves. Too close. Too heavy.
Nora's head snapped up, blade already in hand. Seraphina was on her feet a heartbeat later, her sword whispering free of its sheath.
The camp stirred in sluggish panic, whispers breaking into startled cries then the eyes appeared.
