Vale watched us from across the small fire we'd risked lighting inside the barrier. She had removed her outer robe, revealing the sleek, dark combat attire underneath that clung to her dangerous curves. For once, she didn't comment on our closeness. Instead, she took her own portion and ate in silence, eyes occasionally flicking toward the vortex.
The night felt alive in the worst way. Every few minutes, the air would warp. A child's laughter would echo from nowhere, followed by a wet, tearing sound. Shadows moved at the edge of our vision — not illusions I could easily dismiss, but something the gate was manifesting from the residual fear and pain of Valthor's fallen citizens.
"How many people do you think are still… conscious in there?" Lydia whispered after a while, staring into the flames.
"Too many," I replied. "The gate doesn't just kill. It consumes. Slowly. Some of those things we fought earlier still had fragments of human awareness."
