The campfire crackled, its smoke curling upward in thin ribbons that stung the back of Karlach’s throat. The scent was comfortingly sharp—burning wood and charred meat, the kind of mix that said you made it another day. She stood a little ways off, arms crossed, one boot heel grinding into the dirt, gaze sweeping over the campsite like a restless hawk.

Wyll was laughing again, smooth bastard. Polished, proper, hero-in-the-making bullshit. His coat even looked clean. Astarion lounged near him, ankle crossed over knee like this was some spa and not a dirty field where death visited often. Of course, he’d never look uncomfortable. Not even if a spear came through his ass.

Karlach’s lip twitched—part smirk, part ache. Everyone was keeping it together tonight, more or less. Lae’zel was sharpening her sword. Shadowheart brooded near her tent, pretending not to listen to Gale babble about weave theory like it mattered right now.

She wanted to walk over, to say something dumb and loud and grin too wide until someone laughed just because she did. To clap Wyll on the back and feel the warmth of his skin through her palm. To yank Astarion’s silk shirt just to see if he’d shriek.

But that damned infernal engine inside her chest hummed and she could feel it more when she was still—like now. It throbbed low and mean, a reminder that the furnace keeping her alive would kill anyone she touched for too long. Hug someone? Melt someone. That was the trade-off. That was the joke.

She rolled her neck, shoulders tense. Screw this.

With a grunt, she dropped to the dirt, hands hitting ground. It was still warm, soaked with the day’s heat and the faint stink of sweat, food, and fire. Her arms tensed, and she pushed—steady, fast, clean. Down, up. Down, up. Again. Again. Her breath started coming harder, but it wasn’t enough yet.