The forest camp no longer sounded confident.
The loud laughter from earlier was gone.
No more drunken boasting.
No more jokes about easy hunts and frightened city guards.
Now the valley was filled with quieter sounds.
Bandages being wrapped.
Wounded men groaning near the fires.
Weapons being checked again and again by nervous hands.
Every few minutes, someone glanced north toward the darkness where Falmouth waited beyond the trees.
Daren sat near one of the supply wagons while sharpening his short blade absentmindedly.
Not because it needed sharpening.
Because it kept his hands busy.
His thoughts kept drifting back toward the walls.
Toward the thunder.
Toward men exploding apart before they even reached striking distance.
Marrick eventually sat beside him again holding a half-empty mug.
"You think Garron's actually going through with it?"
Daren already knew the answer.
"Yes."
Marrick stared into the nearby fire.
"That's insane."
Honestly—
Daren agreed.
