The first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, spilling into the camp in a wash of silver and gold. Shaya stirred, blinking away the remnants of sleep. For the first time in what felt like years, her night had been undisturbed—no shadows clawing at her dreams , no jolting awake in a cold sweat. Just deep, unbroken rest.
A rare gift.
Perhaps it was the lingering haze of citronella and cinnamon that drifted like a protective veil over the camp. Lara had, in her usual ingenious way, pressed citronella and cinnamon bark into thin, compact blocks that smoldered without flame, releasing a slow curl of fragrant smoke through the night. It kept away the mosquitoes, insects, and, it seemed, the nightmares too.
