Sephrina stared at the door a moment longer. Something about the look in his eyes unsettled her. He wasn't just angry. He was slipping—emotionally, mentally. She had known Cedric long enough to notice the difference between rage and guilt.
And guilt was far more dangerous when left to fester.
Dust rose from the scorched earth as the early sun crept over the damaged western camp. Smoke no longer filled the air, but its stench lingered, clinging to fabrics, skin, and even the air between words.
Healers moved from tent to tent. Soldiers reset perimeter boundaries and restocked what little remained of their supplies.
Lucien stood near the edge of the camp, scanning the field with a troubled look. His wounds had been treated, but sleep had eluded him. The events of the previous night had left him more on edge than he wanted to admit. Those creatures hadn't just attacked—they had come with a purpose. And something about it all felt… personal.
