The morning packed itself in tight, like an ulcer or a secret. Apollo woke to the sound of boots hissing over wet grass, Lyra's silhouette already moving among the shadows, double-checking nothing and everything at once.
No sentimental farewells; Nik and Yiv exchanged a handshake that could have been a threat, or a bribe, or just the minimum pressure required to keep the world from splitting in two.
Cale did not pretend at camaraderie. He shouldered the majority of their combined gear without complaint, as if the burden was a privilege he'd earned.
The party snaked out from beneath the canopy, dragging after them the raw nerves of too many recent betrayals.
The trail was an afterthought, a rut between a sickle of mossed-over boulders and a stand of saplings whose branches bled an improbable blue. The sky overhead was white, dry, and hollow, and the air inside it tasted more of memory than weather.
