Midnight came softly.
The camp had settled into a fragile, hard-earned peace—snoring knights, dying embers, the distant lap of the sea against mangrove roots. Inside the tent, Coffi and Latte were already gone to the world, one sprawled like a fallen warrior, the other clutching a blanket like it had personally offended her earlier.
I lay there for a long moment, staring at the canvas ceiling.
Sleep didn't come. My thoughts were too loud. So I rose quietly, careful not to wake them, slipped on my boots, and stepped outside.
The night air was cool and damp, heavy with salt and smoke. Crickets sang from somewhere unseen, steady and comforting. The moon hung high and pale, caught in thin clouds that drifted like ghosts across the stars.
