Later that night, when the fire had burned down to a low, obedient glow and the camp had finally exhaled into uneasy sleep, Henry stiffened. Not dramatically. No hand to sword. No sharp inhale. Just a subtle shift, like a man who had lived too many nights on watch and knew exactly when the world tilted wrong. We were sitting near the fire, mugs of bitter coffee warming our hands. The embers pulsed softly, orange veins beneath blackened wood. Above us, the sky was brutally clear, no clouds, no mercy. Stars stared down in silent judgment, the moon hanging high and pale, distant enough to pretend it had nothing to do with mortal problems.
It was our turn to keep watch. Henry's brow furrowed. "My lady," he said quietly.
That alone made my spine tighten.
"I felt something."
Not sensed. Not detected. Felt. I sat up instantly, the chair legs scraping softly against the ground. "What kind of something?" Please no more shark heads.
