The camp had settled into a restless quiet. Merchants whispered around their wagons, glancing toward the treeline every few breaths as if the mist might spit out more of those twisted hounds at any moment. The Rank 3 mercenaries were huddled together a short distance away, speaking in low voices, their eyes flicking toward Rhyka and Cerys now and then.
Rhyka ignored them. He cleaned his spear with deliberate slowness, the smirk fixed on his lips even as the memory of tearing the first beast apart still gnawed at his chest. His mask didn't slip not here, not in front of them.
But when Nero stood and walked past the firelight, heading toward the darker edge of the clearing, Rhyka rose without a word and followed.
They didn't speak until they were well away from the camp, where the mist thickened and the sounds of the others faded.
