Night was coming.
It always was.
The light above the Reach had already dimmed to a pale, copper hue, bleeding slowly into violet, then promising black.
Shadows thickened across the cracked plains, slithering like hungry things eager for the dark to arrive. Ian stood still, his eyes scanning the distant ridges where figures moved—some mortal, others less probably so.
He spoke without turning.
"What do we do for shelter? When the dark comes."
Caelen was beside him, arms folded across his wide chest, steel-gray eyes already focused on the horizon.
"Tent," he said simply. "Long as you're inside before night falls, they can't touch you. Doesn't matter what's out there. Just don't be out there."
Lyra was crouched nearby, tossing stones at a patch of dirt with all the idle, chaotic energy of a storm barely leashed. She hummed something tuneless, pale strands of hair catching what little dying light remained.
"We've got one," Caelen continued. "If you want in."
