The afternoon was drawing to a close, and the lazy sun slid behind the jagged ridges of the mountains. A golden light bathed the camp, but Morwen felt no warmth from it.
She walked with measured steps beside Drevan, both lost in their thoughts, weapons sheathed, armor dusty, features drawn. Nothing like the determined momentum that had driven them out of that tent just a few days before.
Their first mission since the launch of the expedition had ended in failure. A bitter failure. Not a total one—at least not on paper—but enough to leave a taste of ash in their mouths.
In front of the command tent, they stopped. The fabric flapped gently in the wind, and inside, Cliff's shadow was already moving. He was waiting. They knew it.
But neither of them moved.
Morwen inhaled slowly, trying to ease the knot in her chest. She had known fear in battle, physical pain, the rush of adrenaline in a charge... but this was something else. More intimate. More insidious.
