The next morning broke cold and too early. Mist crept along the grass like pale smoke, curling around boots and wheels as the camp stirred awake. Armor clanked. Horses snorted. But the quiet wasn’t because of the usual dawn discipline. It was because everyone could feel the shift.
We weren’t moving deeper into the rift today. Abby had made her choice.
I stood just outside the command tent, arms folded, watching as she spoke quietly with Duke Alaric. Her red cloak shifted in the wind—storm-colored embroidery along the hem flickering like lightning frozen in silk.
Alaric’s jaw was tight. His gloved hand flexed by his sword hilt like he was weighing something heavier than a weapon.
“…You really want to go back now,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement. Flat and sharp.
Abby tilte
