The camp was already awake by the time I had opened my eyes. Not with noise—no shouting, no chaos—but with movement. Purpose. The low murmur of thousands of warriors preparing themselves for something they all understood might be the last thing they ever did.
I stood inside the tent, my back straight, my hands steady despite the way my heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Leather.
Buckles.
Blades.
I checked everything twice.
Then a third time, just to be sure.
My fighting leathers fit snugly against my skin, black and reinforced, etched faintly with runes Lyra had sewn into the seams back home—quiet magic, hidden magic. My daggers sat where they always did, one at each thigh, another at my lower back. The weight of them grounded me. Familiar. Real.
I closed my eyes
