Kaelen did not return to the camp immediately.
The fire behind him whispered softly, voices long since hushed. Cedric had gone still, seated by the dwindling flame, hands clasped tightly in thought. Alaric paced only once before settling, his form hunched inward, the way men looked when they were strong everywhere except their heart.
But Kaelen stayed at the edge of the woods, half in shadow, half in moonlight, his thoughts like river currents running too deep to reach.
They were unraveling.
Not all at once—but strand by strand. The ruin had opened something dangerous in Ilyra, yes. But it had also unmoored the rest of them in subtler, quieter ways. And Kaelen saw it all. The careful diplomacy in their tones. The way Cedric had spoken of truth like it was a blade meant for mercy. The way Alaric's kindness had begun to curdle at the edges into fear.
And Ilyra… gods, Ilyra.
