The Night Patrol
Mikhailis lay on his side inside the tent, his body relaxed in the plush sleeping bag, his breathing even. He kept his eyes half-lidded, giving the impression of being on the verge of drifting off, the soft crackle of the dying campfire outside the tent adding to the illusion of a peaceful rest. Vyrelda had taken the first watch, her silhouette visible against the canvas walls as she moved to and fro, occasionally glancing in his direction, ensuring that her liege was indeed sleeping soundly.
He let out a slow breath, waiting. Minutes passed, then more—the slow passage of time allowing the tension in the camp to relax. Vyrelda's footsteps became less frequent, the cautious rhythm of a guard settling into a routine patrol. Lira had long retreated to her sleeping quarters in the far corner of the tent, and even her normally sharp gaze seemed to have softened after a long day.