---
A few moments later…
Crackle… Crackle… Crackle…
The fire was small, but it was stubborn. It ate dry twigs and split bark with quiet hunger, spitting sparks like tiny stars trying to escape. The flames stayed low, disciplined, the way the Slik guards built them—enough warmth to keep bones from stiffening, not enough light to invite every hungry thing in purgatory to come knocking.
Wind slid over the ridges in long, cold breaths.
Wooooo…
It tried to creep into the hollow where they camped, but the stone walls around them broke the gusts, turning the air into a slow swirl instead of a blade.
Sekhmet sat with his back against a rock face, nightmare coat pulled tight. His boots rested on the ground, toes angled toward the fire. His posture looked calm, but inside him, everything stayed awake.
Purgatory did not teach people how to relax.
It taught them how to pretend.
