The camp fell into the deep, heavy silence of the third watch.
The fires on the terrace had burned down to mounds of dull, glowing crimson coals, casting long, wavering shadows across the pink halite walls. Two hundred feet away, in the main crystal cave, the soft breathing of the sleeping refugees sounded like a gentle tide washing over a distant gravel bar. Master Corin and two older tanners sat by the outer channel arch. Their hunting was heavy steel crossbows resting across their knees. They watched the empty tunnel with tired, vigilant eyes.
Ren sat alone beside the dying embers.
He had waited until Mira’s breathing settled into the slow, steady chime of deep sleep. She lay on the wool blankets five feet away, her head resting on her rolled canvas bag, her small cloth notebook tucked securely beneath her cheek.
Ren pulled the Speculum of Forfeited Paths from his breast pocket.
The mirror felt different tonight. For ten months, the relic had carried the cold, inert weight of a heavy silver pocket-watch. But his ink-stained fingers closed around the gold-silver metal edge. Then, the metal was warm. Pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heartbeat that matched his own pulse with chilling, second-by-second exact timing.
