Night draped itself over the camp in thick, silver-rimmed folds. The waterfall's rumble muted to a distant hush, while mist curled around tent stakes and supply crates. Above the treetops, stars punched holes in the sky—sharp, cold glimmers that felt painfully clean after so much tainted firelight.
Most warriors slept, sprawled in exhausted heaps around dying hearths. A few kept watch, silhouettes against fog, their reflective eyes sweeping the dark. Sylvanna sat near a low fire where logs burned down to ember-orange knots. She held a tin cup of broth between both palms; it steamed in the chill, fragrant with nettle and marrow. Yet each time she brought it to her lips, the scent of scorched sap intruded, turning her stomach. The cup cooled untouched.
