The hour was well past eleven, yet the forest pulsed with unseen life beneath the moonlight. He slumped against a moss-covered boulder, exhaustion tugging at every muscle. His broad backpack—crammed with delicate communications gear—pressed heavily against his spine, and in his arms he cradled a loaded shotgun as if it were a lifeline. He closed his eyes for a shallow rest, bracing for the next set of orders to come through the static. A soft sigh slipped from his lips, mingling with the night’s chorus of rustling leaves and distant insect calls.

From the shadows, a pair of keen eyes watched his weariness with thinly veiled disapproval. Silhouetted against the pale sliver of moon, Ascalon slipped forward, every step measured and silent. Her voice, low and edged with frustration, cut through the hush:

“You really think you can nap in the field?”

Her tone brooked no excuses, yet beneath it lay a flicker of concern—for in this unforgiving wilderness, even brief moments of vulnerability could mean the difference between life and oblivion.