The fire had faded into glowing embers. A quiet warmth that flickered in the hush of the night.
Luke shifted slightly beneath the canopy of their makeshift tent, his back nestled against the bundled cloak he used as a pillow. Across from him, Ilyrana slept in near-perfect stillness, her breath steady, her posture relaxed—but never careless. The faint glow from the dying flames cast soft shadows on her hooded face, and even in sleep, there was something sharp and alert about her presence. Elven nature, perhaps. Or simply who she was at her core.
They had both turned in not long after finishing dinner, lulled by the soft chorus of crickets and the murmuring stream nearby. But of course, such peace didn't come without preparation. Ilyrana had taken to her habit just before nightfall—walking the perimeter, checking for signs of monsters, bandits, or even wild beasts.
