The sky above Outpost Vester was the dull color of scraped steel—flat, tired, and carrying that thin fog that made all sound feel damp. It was early, too early for most soldiers, but Bright had been awake before the bells. His mind wouldn't let him rest.
Last night's patrol had been short but intense. The air in the barracks had been thick with whispers afterward—about the adepts being gathered, about the nobles taking interest in the trials, about the sudden spike in Shroud beasts around the outskirts. Everyone pretended things were normal, but Bright knew better. Change was coming to Vester like a slow, rolling tide.
He stepped down from the barrack steps, stretching his shoulders. Cold air bit at his cheeks. Figures moved through the yard—recruits doing morning drills, supply clerks hauling crates, a few bored privates leaning on spears. The routine steadiness of it all almost made him forget the chaos on the road here.
Almost.
