The wounded disciple limped heavily up the gravel slope of the plateau, clutching a blood-soaked bandage to his ribs while crying out for entry into the defensive perimeter.
He wore the standard azure and white robes of the Lunar Edge outer courts, frayed at the hem and coated in a realistic layer of volcanic dust that matched the terrain of the dying valley. His left leg dragged with apparent weakness, his breathing sounded ragged behind his cracked lips, and his eyes darted toward the stacks of silver exit tokens with the desperate, hollow look of an exhausted survivor.
Yet as the man crossed the twenty-pace marker, Caleb Conway did not signal Gideon and Mara to part their star-iron pavises.
Caleb leaned against the edge of the transport cart, his hands resting easily in the pockets o
