Jonan woke to Raerin's voice, low but firm.
"Up. It's time."
The fires had died to ash. The mist clung closer than ever, dense and oily, beading on their skin like sweat in a fever dream. Ayaka stirred at his side, rubbing her eyes with one hand, dagger still clutched in the other.
There was no dawn here, no sun to rise — but a shift in the cavern's pall suggested movement. Not in light, but in presence. The kind of stillness that follows a predator's breath, not its footsteps. Whatever lay behind the door had noticed them.
They packed in silence. Those who had slept did so fitfully; those who hadn't wore it like a second skin — the drag in their limbs, the red rims of their eyes. Yet no one complained. Raerin's presence made sure of that. If he feared what was to come, he buried it deep.
"How do we open it?" Ayaka asked as they approached the door.
