"How do you know?" I ask.
"Because I've been where you are." His smile is small, sad. "Carrying the weight of everyone's expectations while forgetting that the people who matter most just want you to survive it."
Something loosens in my chest. Not fixed, not healed, but... eased. Like a knot that's been pulled too tight finally finding room to breathe.
That evening, I outline the plan to intercept the convoy. Not from a place of desperate determination, but with the clarity that comes from actually thinking instead of just reacting. I listen when Aspen suggests analternate approach route. Delegate reconnaissance to Torric and Malrik. Let Kieran's tactical experience guide the timing.
Finn watches from the edge of our circle, silent but present. When our eyes meet across the firelight, I see something shift in his expression. Not forgiveness, that's too much to hope for, but maybe understanding. Maybe the beginning of it.
When Callum starts to object to the plan's timeline, I don't snap or argue. I just look at him with steady eyes and say, "Not tonight."
Even Callum knows better than to argue with that tone. The firelight flickers across faces that, for the first time in days, seem to believe we might actually make it.
The group makes camp in a defensive formation, everyone moving with the practiced efficiency of people who've learned to trust each other's strengths. Torric and Malrik take first watch, their easy coordination a reminder of how well we work when we're not fighting ourselves.
I move toward my usual watch position, but Aspen intercepts me with gentle firmness.
"You'll lead better in the morning if you sleep," he says, ice-blue eyes holding mine.
Every instinct screams against it. Against letting my guard down, against trusting that the world won't fall apart if I'm not vigilantly holding it together. But something in his expression—faith, maybe, or simple stubborn care—makes me hesitate.
Then nod.
I settle into my bedroll on the outskirts of camp, close enough to respond if needed but far enough away that my restless energy won't disturbthe others. My shadows drift nearby, their movements finally relaxing into something that resembles peace.
For the first time in days, I let my eyes slip shut without fighting it. The sounds of the night hum around me like a heartbeat just out of rhythm—wind through corrupted trees, the soft murmur of voices on watch, the distant call of something that might once have been an owl.
I don't see the shadow that moves past the edge of camp.
Don't feel the breath on my cheek.
Don't hear the whisper that answers the darkness:
"Hello again, Little Shadow."
