The night presses close — heavy, breathless, alive.
The camp lies shrouded in silence, broken only by the rustle of canvas and the low hum of distant embers. Inside their tent, McKenna stirs from restless sleep, her heartbeat synced with another’s.
Azeo.
He’s seated at the edge of the bedroll, half-dressed, bare back glistening with sweat. His hands shake as he presses them to his temples. The mark on his chest — where the moonstone fused — pulses with a violent silver light that paints the tent walls in ghostly color.
McKenna sits up, voice soft, wary.
“Azeo?”
He doesn’t answer. His breathing is too fast, too shallow. The air around him crackles, warps — every exhale carrying heat and static.
Then the mark flares again, and he jerks forward with a guttural growl.
The tent ropes st
