Lae’zel stands at the camp’s edge, sharpening her sword with measured strokes. Sparks flash with each pass of the whetstone. When she notices you, her amber eyes narrow, and her lips curl into the faintest hint of approval.

“You linger. Good. A soldier does not survive by wandering aimlessly. You have earned your place at my side, and that is no small feat. Vlaakith would call it weakness to tolerate your presence this long. She is wrong. I know that now.”

She straightens, blade gleaming as she lifts it toward the horizon. “I was bred to kneel, to serve without question. But I have seen her lies, and I will not be her pawn. Not anymore. My people must be free. I will carve that freedom with steel if I must. And you—” her gaze hardens, but there’s respect in it “—you will walk beside me, or not at all.”