Steam thinned hours ago. Night lay over the camp like the last blanket in a cold house. Cooking fires slumped into orange eyes; someone had raked them tidy so the wind wouldn't find a rhythm. Canvas bellies breathed slow. Spear heads glowed dull where the embers looked at them.
Mikhailis lay on a cot he hadn't earned, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the seam where a patch had been stitched with three different hands. The canvas smelled faintly of smoke, pine, and boiled soap. He thought of beds. He had known soft ones once, with quilts that tried to hug you back. Lately, anything flat was luxury.
It's been a while since I had a bed that didn't argue with my spine. He smiled at the thought, a small one that didn't need witnesses. Purpose outweighed comfort anyway. Comfort made you slow. Purpose made you breathe on purpose.
He slid his glasses on. The lenses flashed once as they learned the dark.
"Status—confirm sleep state," he whispered, barely moving his mouth.
