The night stretched around the campsite like a velvet cloak, dotted with the soft glows of lanterns and the steady crackle of the central fire. Shadows danced across the faces of the group gathered—travelers, misfits, and a few who were clearly pretending to be braver than they felt. Laughter rippled through the circle, mingling with the scent of roasting meat and pine smoke, but Reverie felt only the pull of the dark presence across from her.

Wrath leaned back slightly, letting the firelight carve his angles into something sharp and dangerous. His gaze followed her every movement, subtle enough that no one else noticed, yet intense enough that she felt it pressing against her skin. He didn’t speak—he rarely did—but the weight of his presence was enough to make her pulse quicken.

Around them, the others told stories, threw sticks into the fire, and joked loudly to mask the creeping chill of the night. Reverie smiled faintly, trying to join in, but her attention kept drifting to him, the silent predator who somehow seemed to occupy both the shadows and the light.

A fox barked somewhere in the distance, and someone groaned, complaining about the noise. Wrath finally moved, a small shift forward on the log he sat on, just enough that Reverie noticed. The flames reflected off the steel in his tattoos, tracing lines that seemed almost alive, and for a moment, she wondered if he had even heard the other voices at all.

Then he spoke, his tone casual, effortless, as if they were just two friends sharing the quiet:

“Pass the marshmallows, will you?”