Tensions brewed long before the shouting started.
By the fourth night since the ruin, the campfire was no longer a gathering place—it was a fragile border. Ilyra sat furthest from the others, her cloak drawn tightly, eyes cast into the flame that now no longer obeyed her call. It danced in unnatural rhythms, pulsing as though breathing with some unseen will.
East noticed it first. Then Cedric.
"Ilyra," Alaric murmured, voice low. "You need to stop."
Her gaze didn't shift. "I'm not doing it."
The fire snapped higher, nearly brushing the low boughs above. Sparks scattered like shooting stars.
"You must be," Alaric said, rising. "The leylines near here are steady. That flame shouldn't move like that unless someone's—"
"Unless someone's tainted," Thaddeus interrupted, arms crossed, eyes locked on Ilyra. "Say it."
"I'm not tainted." Her voice cracked, softer than flame. "It's not me."
But it was.
