The fire had burned down to embers by the time Argolaith stirred.
The land was too quiet. Not the quiet of peace, but the kind that came before a storm. It wasn't just the absence of animals or insects—it was the absence of movement. The wind had stilled. The fog had retreated. Even the frost seemed to hold its breath.
Argolaith sat with his back to the broken monument, staring into the half-dead glow of the fire. The stone around them pulsed faintly in the moonlight, the carvings catching stray glimmers of silver.
The image of the blue-eyed man before the crystal tree still lingered in his thoughts.
He hadn't spoken of it to the others. Not yet.
Because it felt like something that wasn't meant to be real.
Until now.
A faint crack rang through the plateau.
Argolaith's head snapped toward the monument.
The others, still in light sleep, stirred.
