Nyxtriel stood on the ridge, arms folded, watching the line of prisoners below silent, dirty, hunched under the weight of pickaxes and orders. Her gaze lingered, as always, on one in particular. Deamon, covered in dust, sweat on his brow, still carried himself like someone who didn't belong there. Because he didn't.
Two days had passed since they arrived. Two days of digging, shouting, and pretending.
She hated every second of it.
"Still staring at lover boy?" a voice drawled beside her.
Nyxtriel didn't flinch. "Rhea."
"You really do like watching him, don't you?" Rhea smirked, arms resting lazily on her spear.
Nyxtriel said nothing. No retort, no glare. She didn't have the energy for fake expressions today. She wasn't here to socialize. She wasn't here to make friends.
Just gather information. Protect him. And destroy anything that threatened that plan.
