The Cohort marched east for the rest of the day, trailing behind the shimmering white beacon that pulsed in the sky like a distant flame. The aftermath of the battle lingered in their bones, but aside from the two forgettable girls who'd fallen, there were no severe losses. Even Blythe, her magic hindered by corruption, had managed to seal their wounds and patch up their clothing. Her healing was far from perfect, but it had kept everyone moving.
Now, the cold, dark night had settled over the endless dunes.
Damien usually volunteered for watch, but tonight he let himself rest. Uneasy rest.
Lying among a camp full of people he didn't trust made sleep feel like a gamble. His body twitched at every stray rustle, every shift of sand outside the tent. The air was dry and stuck to his skin like sweat.
Then it came again, a faint crinkle, subtle but sharp.
His eyes snapped open.
