The fire crackled, its orange glow painting the faces of the men gathered around it. The desert night was truly cold, the kind of cold that seeped into bones and made muscles ache.
But the warmth of the flames, and the quiet company, kept the bitter chill at bay. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with the dry, clean desert air.
Viana sat back, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of herbal tea. The warmth from the ceramic mug spread through her chilled fingers. She watched them, her gaze moving from face to face.
Joel leaned against a rough rock, his body relaxed but ready. He was sharpening his dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. His usual lazy smirk was absent, replaced by a focused, distant look.
Reyes sat cross-legged on the sand, cleaning his sword with a methodical rhythm. His sharp eyes occasionally flicked toward Prince Rayne and his two accompanying knights, a silent watchfulness in their depths.
