Night settled over the wary group.
Fires were spaced at sensible intervals, just far enough apart to prevent stray sparks from leaping tents, close enough that shadows never fully claimed the ground between them. The guards rotated without being told. Bedrolls were laid in quiet yet natural patterns—expected from families that gather toward the center, wagons forming a loose crescent, sentries posted where the road bent and sightlines stretched longest.
It was a good camp.
Relaxed. Not careless. But steady. The kind of night built on experienced realism rather than hope.
The Song approved. The people agreed.
Melody moved in low, even currents, smoothing the cadence of footsteps along the perimeter, nudging watch rotations into alignment without drawing attention to itself. Conversations drifted, then settled. Laughter came softly and stopped where it should. Even the animals sensed the shape of the night—horses shifting less, pack beasts lowering their heads with slow certainty.
Sawyer sat near the outer fire, where warmth met darkness in a clean line. He watched the civilians move, counted the seconds between footfalls, the number of groups, the visible smiles. He noted how the Song reinforced these habits already in place instead of correcting them. That to the people, more than anything, gave the evening its sense of safety.
Nothing was being forced.
Agnes checked the straps on her pack and leaned back against a crate, boots crossed, unstrung bow within reach but not readied. Her posture suggested rest, but her fingers still brushed familiar places—buckle, cord, grip—out of habit rather than need. Bran stood a little farther out than usual, pretending he was just stretching his legs. He rolled his shoulders once, then again, gaze drifting toward the road before snapping back as if he'd caught himself paying too much attention. Faust's voice carried briefly from the center of camp before dropping again, the way it always did when he remembered where he was, laughter thinning into something more appropriate for a night meant to sleep.
Kristaphs had wandered toward the edge of the firelight, stopping where the glow broke against the first line of trees. He stood there longer than strictly necessary, head tilted slightly, eyes tracing the shapes of branches and the gaps between trunks. At a glance, it might have looked like idle contemplation. In truth, he was measuring—distances, cover, the way foliage bent where wind should not have touched it. His hand rested loosely at his side, fingers flexing once as if resisting the urge to reach for a weapon. The forest offered nothing obvious in return. That, more than anything, bothered him.
Near one of the larger wagons, Aluna had gathered a small knot of the older travelers. She spoke softly but with the easy authority of someone used to being listened to. Derrick the blacksmith stood front and center, broad arms folded across his chest, his wife close at his side with her hands clasped around a cup gone cold. Others lingered just behind them—weathered faces, careful eyes, people who had learned the value of preparation through loss rather than theory. Aluna reassured them without promising too much, answering questions before they fully formed, acknowledging worries without feeding them. She spoke of rotations, of light, of rest—ordinary things made steadier by her calm. Derrick nodded along, jaw set but trusting, while his wife finally exhaled and loosened her grip on the cup.
The camp continued to breathe around them, each small interaction fitting neatly into place, as if the night itself were encouraging everyone to stay exactly where they were.
Even after the afternoon's disturbance, the road had reclaimed itself.
People slept.
The Song held a low melody.
If anyone noticed how carefully the resonance curved around Sawyer's position—how it left him a little more space than the rest—they did not say so. If they felt the night's quiet was a fraction too deliberate, too well-kept, they dismissed the thought as travel nerves and let their eyes close.
For a time, the camp existed exactly as it should have.
Guarded.
Peaceful.
Waiting.
Kristaphs approached without disturbing the pattern.
He came from the darker side of the fire's reach, boots placing themselves where sound already existed—gravel crunching softly, a log shifting in the heat. He carried no weapon in hand, only a tin cup that steamed faintly in the cool air. Whatever was inside smelled faintly bitter.
Sawyer noticed him three steps out. He did not turn.
Kristaphs stopped beside him anyway, eyes on the fire. "Mind if I sit?"
Sawyer shifted his weight, giving him room. "No."
A corner of Kristaphs's mouth lifted as he lowered himself onto a crate opposite the fire, elbows resting on his knees. He cradled the cup between his palms, letting the warmth bleed in slowly.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The Song flowed between them without comment. It did not interfere. Did not amplify. It simply let the silence exist.
Sawyer broke it first.
"Is it already time to switch watches?"
Kristaphs glanced up, brows knitting slightly before he understood. He shook his head once. "No. Still a while yet."
Sawyer nodded, gaze still forward. "Thought so."
A few sparks lifted from the fire and vanished into the dark.
Kristaphs took a sip from the cup. "I've always been a night owl," he said casually. "Never slept well when the world's quiet. Too much room for thoughts to echo."
Sawyer huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. "And here I thought you'd come to check on me."
"If I wanted to do that," Kristaphs said, unbothered, "I'd be less subtle."
That earned him a glance.
Kristaphs met it evenly. There was no accusation in his eyes. No fear. Just the calm attentiveness of someone who had spent enough years around dangerous things to know when not to poke them.
"Camp's good tonight," Kristaphs continued. "Better than most. Folks feel safe."
"Yes," Sawyer said. "Formation's clean. Sightlines are solid."
"Mm." Kristaphs nodded. "You've been watching."
Sawyer did not deny it.
They sat again in shared quiet, the fire's warmth pressing gently against their knees while the night pressed back. Somewhere deeper in camp, a child murmured in sleep. A guard coughed once, then resumed pacing.
Kristaphs spoke again, softer this time. "You ever notice how peace can feel heavier than danger?"
Sawyer considered the question. The way the night held itself. The way the Song hummed low and careful, like a hand resting on a blade rather than gripping it.
"Peace asks you to trust it," he said. "Danger just asks you to react."
Kristaphs smiled faintly. "My thoughts exactly."
He leaned back slightly, eyes lifting toward the sliver of sky visible beyond the wagons. Stars were sparse tonight, half-hidden by thin cloud. The moon was little more than a suggestion.
"You moved fast today," Kristaphs said, as if commenting on the weather.
Sawyer's shoulders did not tense. That, in itself, was telling.
"Fast enough," he replied.
Kristaphs nodded, accepting the non-answer without pressure. "Not as fast as that day when we first met," he added after a moment. "That was just… surprising."
"People don't like surprises," Sawyer said.
"No," Kristaphs agreed. "They like patterns."
The Song shifted, almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging the word.
Kristaphs finished his drink and stood, stretching his shoulders. "I'll take another lap," he said. "Let the others sleep a bit longer."
Sawyer finally turned to look at him fully. "If you hear anything—"
"I will," Kristaphs said easily. "And if I don't… I suppose that's good too."
He paused, then added, "You don't need to stay awake on my account."
Sawyer looked back to the darkness beyond the firelight, where the road disappeared into shadow. "I wasn't planning on sleeping yet."
Kristaphs studied him for a heartbeat longer, then inclined his head and moved off, footsteps folding back into the rhythm of the camp.
The fire crackled.
The Song held its low melody.
The night remained guarded.
Peaceful.
And still—quietly, patiently—waiting.
Time passed in quiet increments.
Not marked by bells or calls, but by the way the fire settled lower, by the slow rotation of guards whose steps grew more measured as fatigue crept in. The Song adjusted with them, thinning its presence just enough to keep minds alert without sharpening them into anxiety. Thirty minutes slipped by, unnoticed and uncounted, absorbed into the rhythm of a night doing exactly what it was meant to do.
Sawyer remained where he was.
The camp breathed around him.
Footsteps approached from the inner ring this time—lighter, unhurried, carrying the faint cadence of ritual rather than patrol. Aluna emerged from between the wagons, cloak drawn close, fingers still loosely interlaced as if she had only just finished setting something down that could not be seen.
She stopped a few paces from the fire and exhaled softly.
"Done," she said, mostly to herself.
Sawyer glanced over. "Evening prayer?"
Aluna nodded, then smiled as she came to sit beside him, folding her legs neatly beneath her. "Took a bit longer tonight. The Song's… talkative."
Sawyer huffed quietly. "That's one way to put it."
She followed his gaze toward the perimeter for a moment, then leaned back on her hands. "You know," she said lightly, "we did it again."
"Did what?"
"Put Bran and Agnes as far from everyone else as we reasonably could."
Sawyer raised a brow. "They don't snore that badly."
Aluna laughed under her breath. "They snore just badly enough. Together, it's unbearable. Bran starts it, Agnes answers, and by the third exchange you'd think two sawmills were arguing."
Sawyer pictured it despite himself. "Hm, an efficient system." A small smirk formed while he nodded.
"Oh, very. By contrast," she continued, tilting her head toward the center of camp, "Faust sleeps like an angel. Perfect breathing. Barely moves. If I didn't know better, I'd say he practices."
Sawyer glanced that way. "Unexpected."
"You tell me," Aluna said. "He is a very anxious one. First time I checked on him, I thought he was faking it." She looked at Faust sleeping peacefully near the fire. Sawyer followed.
They shared a quiet beat, the fire filling the space with gentle crackles.
Sawyer spoke again. "What about Kristaphs?"
Aluna blinked, then smiled faintly. "Night owl," she said without hesitation. "Always has been."
"I see."
"Since the day we met him," she replied. "He never really liked sleeping when others were awake. Says he likes the night." She shrugged. "He also doesn't like talking about himself much. Deflects. Observes. Listens instead."
Sawyer nodded slowly.
Aluna was about to say more when a familiar voice cut in, dry and amused.
"You really should not be talking about someone behind their backs."
They both looked up.
Kristaphs stood just beyond the firelight, posture easy, hands empty. He didn't look offended—if anything, he looked entertained. The Song shifted subtly around him, acknowledging his return to the perimeter's rhythm.
Aluna flushed immediately. "You were gone."
"I was," Kristaphs agreed. "Long enough to hear my name, apparently."
Sawyer's expression didn't change. "You find anything?"
Kristaphs's humor faded as he nodded once. "Goblin tracks," he said. "A decent distance out. Old enough that they weren't moving with the caravan, but recent enough to matter."
Aluna straightened. "How many?"
"Hard to say," Kristaphs replied. "The trail thins near the treeline. I followed what I could before losing definition."
Sawyer stood.
Kristaphs continued, voice steady. "That's the problem. I followed the obvious signs. The disturbed earth. The broken underbrush."
"And?" Sawyer prompted.
"And I missed the rest," Kristaphs said. "The foliage was doing too good a job hiding them."
The Song faltered—just slightly.
Somewhere beyond the firelight, leaves rustled without wind.
The camp remained guarded.
Still peaceful.
But the waiting had found its shape.