CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The crackle of the campfire is the only sound in the night, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the crisp air. I sit across from Ford, watching the flames dance and cast his face in a play of shadows and light. He's close enough that I could reach out and touch him—if I dared. But there's an unspoken chasm between us, filled with prophecies and fears.
"Skye," Ford breaks the silence, his voice low and contemplative. "We need to talk strategy."
I nod, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. "We do."
"Getting a hair from Finnic won't be easy," he says, his green eyes flickering with concern. "The Iron Will pack's territory is heavily guarded, and Finnic is always surrounded by his enforcers."
"Which is why you can’t go." My voice
