Lindarion found Lira near the edge of the ridge trail, sharpening her shortblade on a whetstone with lazy precision.
Her coat was dusted in frost from earlier patrol, eyes clear, as always, like nothing could surprise her, just disappoint.
She didn't look up when he stopped next to her.
But she said, "You're thinking too loud."
He folded his arms, scanned the path ahead, and replied, "Luneth didn't sleep."
"None of us did," Lira said. A pause. Then, "She worse?"
He glanced back toward camp.
Luneth was still in the same position. Seated. Still. Staring at her own hands like they belonged to someone else.
"Something's wrong," he said. "Not tired. Not injured. Not even magical backlash."
"She touched the rune?"
"She didn't have to." Lindarion's eyes narrowed. "It touched her."
Lira slowed the motion of her blade once. Just once. Then resumed. "Then she's lucky."
"Not the word I'd use."
"I would," she said. "You haven't seen what it does to someone unlucky."
