The night was restless. Even the stars above the Ember fang mountains seemed to flicker with unease, casting pale glimmers against the dark expanse. Aria stood at the edge of the encampment, her cloak brushing the dew-damp grass, her eyes scanning the horizon where firelight burned faintly from the enemy's scattered outposts. The air carried a weight tonight, thick with prophecy and the promise of bloodshed.
Behind her, she heard the measured steps of Marcus. His presence was like the steady heartbeat of a war drum—assured, unyielding.
"You haven't rested," Marcus said, his voice low, the faint rasp in his tone betraying his own fatigue.
Aria gave a humorless laugh. "Neither have you."
He came closer, the heat of his body warming the cold night air. His hand brushed against hers briefly, a fleeting touch before he pulled back, as though reminding himself of the bond they shared, one too powerful to overindulge in when war pressed so close.
