The storm had passed, but the sky remained bruised with twilight. Rhett lay on his back in the tented corner of the Syndicate encampment, eyes fixed on the canopy above. The sounds of strategy murmurs, sharpened blades, and weary howls filled the valley beyond, yet his body ached for something deeper, something forgotten.
Sleep clawed at his mind, dragging him down like a tide.
His last thought before it took him was of Camille, her silences, the fire in her eyes, and the torment behind them.
Then the forest rose around him.
It was not the world he knew. Here, the trees breathed. Their trunks twisted in slow motion, leaves whispering names he'd never spoken aloud. Moonlight sifted through branches like liquid silver. The ground was damp, soft with moss, and the wind was silent, but watchful.
Rhett turned slowly, his hand brushing the dagger at his hip, though it felt symbolic more than real.
Then he saw her.
