The camp had fallen into an uneasy silence. Fires burned low, casting long shadows across the tents. Far off, a wolf howled—long and mournful. It wasn’t a warning. It was the kind of sound wolves made when the night knew something was coming. The camp had quieted. The warhorns had stopped. The scouts had returned. The plans had been made. Now, only the crackle of fire remained, and the restless wind that moved through the trees like an omen. Tents rustled. Weapons were checked one final time. No one slept deeply, not with the weight of what tomorrow promised.
Selene stood outside Ronan’s tent for a long moment, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, her heart beating too loud in the stillness. She hesitated just outside. The flap was drawn, but the soft glow of lantern light bled through
