The camp had fallen back asleep too quickly, like a wounded animal feigning calm so it would be left alone. The torches still swayed, stirring pale, tired tongues of flame, weary from fighting the cosmic cold left by the Source-Gate's visit. The earth bore its trace: a film of spiritual frost, a shudder etched into the dust. No one spoke of it, but everyone saw it. Everyone felt it. Even the dead would have shuddered.
Dylan stood on the platform where Martissant had received the entity, arms crossed, his eyes lost on the horizon as if he hoped the dawn would answer an unspoken question. The night, still heavy, clung to the sky with stubborn laziness.
Julius came up behind him, a poorly stifled yawn on his lips.
"You gonna stand here until the stars fall?" he asked, leaning on the wooden railing. "Or do you just want them to see you're sulking?"
