Gale's fingers hovered above the page, tracing the arcane sigils inked into the ancient tome before him, but his mind was elsewhere. The midday sun filtered through the trees, casting golden light across the camp, warming his skin, yet the chill beneath his ribs—the cold weight of the Netherese orb—remained ever-present. It pulsed softly, a steady reminder of the ticking clock that only he could hear.

He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the familiar ache of it all. This burden, this unrelenting weight he had to manage alone. Opening his eyes, Gale turned his gaze back to the tome, though the words swam in his vision. How long do I have before the next time? The last infusion of magic had bought him some time—precious little, but enough to hold back the impending catastrophe. The Weave, his old ally, was becoming a lifeline he feared he might soon exhaust. And when it ran dry...

He didn’t want to finish the thought.

A twig snapped nearby, and his head turned, catching the sight of Karlach bounding into the clearing, a wide grin plastered across her face as she waved toward Wyll. Her fiery exuberance was infectious, a force of life he sometimes wished he could capture in a bottle, just to remind himself of what hope looked like.

For a moment, just a moment, Gale allowed himself to take in the camaraderie around him—the banter, the laughter, the quiet companionship. The fleeting serenity. And then, like a ripple across calm water, the orb pulsed again beneath his skin, a sharp reminder that his peace was as temporary as everything else.

He straightened, steeling himself against the inevitable, and dipped his quill into the ink. There was still so much to learn, and so little time to do it. But if anyone could navigate the impossible, it had to be him. He had to believe that—if only to keep the darkness at bay a little longer.