As daylight faded, camp came together in pieces.

Not the neat kind promised by merchant manuals or hopeful maps. Fires were built where the ground allowed it. Wagons were drawn into a loose crescent, canvas patched with whatever hands could spare. The wounded were placed closest to the flames, where light and heat made pain easier to see and harder to ignore.

Nyxara moved through it without ceremony.

Voices carried easily in the still air. Not loud. Not meant for her. That made them more honest.

"...thought we were dead," someone murmured near the wagons. A human woman, clutching a bloodstained sleeve. "I saw the dart hit him and I just—"

"You didn't freeze," another voice said. "That's something."

The caravan mage sat braced against a wagon wheel, jaw clenched, one trouser leg cut open to the thigh. Poison lingered in his blood; she could smell it beneath the antiseptic resin and sweat. He shook as he drank from the waterskin the bard handed him.

Young, Nyxara thought. Or simply unlucky. The road made little distinction. Neither did death.

A dwarven trader lay a few paces away, thick fingers clenched around a strip of leather as a half-orc woman bound his shoulder. The woman's tusks were chipped, her arms mapped with old scars. She worked efficiently, murmuring instructions that had nothing to do with prayer and everything to do with survival.

"Raiders don't hit like that unless there's profit in it. Or orders."

"What kind of orders?"

The dwarf snorted. "The kind you don't argue with."

Nearby, an elderly elf examined a poisoned wound with narrowed eyes, crushing sharp-smelling salves between his palms. A halfling girl held the lantern steady for him, knuckles white with effort.

The halfling girl whispered urgently to the elf healer, "Will he lose his arm?"

"Not if he keeps it clean," the elf replied. "And if the poison decides to be merciful."

"Does poison do that?"

The elf paused. "Rarely."

Nyxara squatted beside the caravan guard whose leg had broken after his fall. He was lucky to be alive. As she tightened the bandage, memory flickered unwanted and sharp.

Steel in her hands. The press of scales beneath her blade. And flame—thin and bright—running along the edge.

Her fingers stilled for half a breath.

She had not called it; she knew her blades, knew the controlled, deliberate way force moved through her hands into steel, and this had been different, hot and immediate, something that manifested without invitation.

Nyxara forced her grip steady and finished tying the knot. The guard hissed through his teeth. She adjusted the angle of his leg without apology.

"We should turn back," the merchant grumbled.

"To Morthel?" Her brow lifted faintly. "You think it's safer?"

He clenched his jaw and remained silent.

When the worst of the injuries were stabilized, the caravan master approached, the bard close on his heels.

"We'll stay here tonight," he said. His hands shook now that the danger had passed. "Let the poison work its way out. And hopefully a few people can get some rest."

Nyxara rose slowly, her gaze sweeping the camp. The wounded. The fires burning low. The dark beyond the light, patient and waiting. Its edges were clear to her, where others would see only shadow.

"You two saved lives today," the man added, his voice rough with exhaustion and relief. "May I ask your names so I can properly thank you?"

Nyxara hesitated. A fraction of a breath. Long enough to decide what to give and what to keep.

"Nyxara," she said at last.

The bard smiled faintly, as if he'd expected that.

"Torin," he offered easily. "Torin Cross."

The caravan master nodded, committing it to memory. "Nyxara. Torin Cross. I'm Harrick Vell. Nice to make your acquaintance. Thank you for your help earlier."

"We did what was necessary," Nyxara said.

"Necessary or not," he replied, "we won't survive another attack like that. With my guards down and my mage wounded, we're ripe for the picking. Would you see us safely to Stillreach?"

Before she could answer, Harrick cleared his throat. "Of course, I'll see you both paid well for your troubles once we arrive."

Nyxara's attention was already moving back to the perimeter. "I doubt they'll be back."

"Oh, well, what makes you say that?" The caravan master wrung his hands.

"They got what they came for." Nyxara jutted her chin towards the empty space where the chest once was.

"Agreed," said Torin. "But some protection for the travelers might make them feel at ease. And a little coin never hurts."

She considered Torin's words, knowing men who understood morale were often more dangerous than those who relied on steel.

"Two watches," she said. "One at dusk. One before dawn." She told herself it was the coin. Or the fact that Stillreach lay ahead, and she did not know the way. Not him.

Harrick nodded quickly. "Excellent." Relief loosened his shoulders before he retreated toward the fires.

Torin lingered.

"Looks like we're hired, Nyxara," he said, raising a golden brow.

She stepped closer. Not enough to touch.

"Names are earned," she said. "Rarely given."

His pale green gaze moved to the gold bands circling her horns, to the line of her shoulder and down to her blades, then returned to her eyes. He didn't step back. "I'll take that as an invitation."

"You shouldn't."

He drew a breath, his gaze shifting briefly before returning to her. "Earlier," he said, quieter now, "you didn't hesitate."

"Neither did you."

"And if I had?" he asked.

Her gaze moved over him in quiet assessment, lingering a fraction too long on the pulse at his throat after noting the rapier at his hip and the strength in his stance. "You'd be dead."

Instead of bristling, a slow smile worked across his face, the kind that would have been disarming if she had been inclined to be disarmed. "Honesty. I like that."

She tilted her head slightly. Most men mistook danger for challenge. He treated it like information. "Be sure to stay out of my way."

His voice lowered. "If I disappoint you—"

"You won't get a second chance."

The space between them narrowed, the air shifting just enough to draw her attention to it.

"Good," he said softly. "I prefer clear expectations."

That almost pulled a smile from her. Almost.

"I'll take first watch," she said. "Don't be late to relieve me."

She stepped back, then walked away without looking behind her, aware of his attention at her back, steady and unhurried.