But as Kael drifted into a half-sleep, something flickered in the horizon outside. A glow.
Not dawn. Not firelight from their camp.
Flames. Rising higher.
Kael’s eyes snapped open, his grin fading into something sharper. He sat up, staring out the cracked window.
On the horizon, flames danced—unnatural, crimson, writhing like living serpents.
Kael stood at the cracked archway of the ruin, his chest still slick from the night’s indulgence, his arms folded as dawn’s cold light washed over rubble and ash. Clara stirred beside him, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her knives already close in hand even in her half-daze. Lyra leaned lazily against the wall, her silver hair catching the pale glow, her golden eyes narrowing at the distant fire.
"That’s no campfire," Kael muttered, his tone sharp
