The morning sun rose like a blade, slicing through the chill mist that clung to Windspire Cliffs. Inigo stirred the fire one last time before stamping it out with his boot. The sky above was clear—too clear. A hunter's sky. No cover for anything that flew.
Lyra yawned softly as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her hair had fallen from its tie during the night and now framed her face like silvered silk. She blinked at the brightness, then glanced toward Inigo, who was rechecking his gear in that focused, meticulous way of his.
And then she noticed it.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing.
Inigo looked up, his hand still resting on the weapon laid across his lap—the matte black body of the M110 glinted faintly in the sunlight. "This?" he said casually, brushing imaginary dust from the scope. "Something I brought along."
"I've never seen it before."
Inigo shrugged. "It's always been with me. I just didn't have a reason to bring it out until now."
