Uncertainty did not fade with rest.
It fermented.
From a rise overlooking the fortified camp, Rhys watched lanterns bloom at measured intervals, the perimeter taking shape with professional efficiency—ditches scraped, stakes driven, sentries posted in overlapping arcs. Fires were kept low. Smoke was managed. This was not panic.
It was restraint under strain.
"They're disciplined," Caria murmured. "Even now."
"Which makes this harder on them," Rhys replied. "They can feel something's wrong, but they can't justify acting on it."
Puddle hovered between them, surface barely rippling, its awareness stretched thin and wide. Through it, Rhys felt the camp's pulse: tight clusters of intent around command tents, restless edges where soldiers shifted weight too often, hands lingering on weapons longer than needed.
No songs. No laughter.
An army at ease filled the dark with noise.
This one listened to it.
Rhys turned away first. "We don't touch the camp."
Caria blinked. "At all?"
