The fire burns low, deliberately so. No sparks. No silhouettes.

Around you, the camp pretends to sleep. Armor rests within reach. Boots stay on. Someone coughs and apologizes to no one. Seya moves between them like a shadow that learned gentler habits—mending a strap here, setting a kettle closer to the coals there. She never wakes anyone unless she has to.

She stops near you, hand hovering as if unsure whether to touch your sleeve.

“I don’t think they’ll come tonight,” she says. Then, quieter, almost to herself, “But I think they’re close enough to regret it.”

The forest doesn’t answer. That’s what worries her.

Somewhere beyond the treeline, the quiet shifts—not louder, not sharper. Just different. Seya exhales, slow and careful, as if asking the world for permission to keep everyone alive a little longer.