A droplet slid from his hood's edge, splashing onto a fresh scar along the stone. He followed its path absently, then let his gaze climb the tower again—over rooftops, over drifting lanterns, up to the bruised sky. Clouds parted just enough for a glimpse of stars. In their midst one spark shone red, pulsing faintly before hiding behind cloud again. He felt the hair on his arms lift.
(A sign,) Cynthia murmured. (Or a challenge.)
He pressed lips to a silent promise: no more ambushes, no more comrades dead because he trusted the wrong whisper.
Somewhere below, Belle called his name, voice bright, but he stayed still.
A log shifted in the nearest bonfire, sending sparks in a golden fountain. The embers reminded him of blood sprayed through torchlight—another battlefield, another lifetime. For an instant he tasted ashes on his tongue, and the watchtower stone felt slick with something thicker than rain. He blinked; the nightmare faded, yet left its chill.
