Night in the scrublands sounded different from the marsh.Where the wetlands had whispered and chimed, this country spoke in dry tongues—pine needles scratching one another, small animals skittering through brittle leaves, the occasional crack of sap inside the trees like distant knuckles. The air smelled of resin and dust, clean after the sour breath of salt.Ryan took the second watch.The others slept in uneven shapes around the fire: Kael on his back with one hand still resting on the spear, Maya curled like a satisfied cat after a meal of unlucky rabbit, Olivia close enough that their shoulders almost touched even in dreams. Hobb snored with the stubborn determination of a man who had survived worse roads than this.The storm in Ryan’s chest was quiet, content from the offering he had given the marsh folk. He wondered if power could feel gratitude. The idea unsettled him less than it once would have.Beyond the ring of fire

Dawn tasted like iron.Ryan felt it the moment he stepped onto the western wall—the sharp, metallic promise that hung in the air before storms and battles alike. The Dominion banners were closer now, their black cloth stirring lazily as if the hawks stitched upon them were breathing.Below, the road had become a slow river of armor.Kael stood with the Keep’s captain, counting wagons and spears with a soldier’s eye. Maya leaned over the parapet beside a cluster of young archers, already joking too loudly. Olivia was farther back, helping Seris organize the healers, her braid tucked tight against her neck.Everyone had found a place except him.The storm prowled inside his ribs, curious and bright. It pressed against his thoughts the way a dog nudges a closed door.“Not yet,” he whispered.A horn sounded from the Dominion line—long, courteous, utterly confident.Kael spat over the wall. “They’ve brought