They had been riding west for twelve days when the third moon began to rise.
The company made camp in the ruins of an old border fort: crumbling walls, a dry well, wind whistling through arrow slits like mourning voices. The sky turned the color of fresh blood as the moon crested the hills, huge and low.
Star felt it the moment it started.
A cold thread pulled behind his birthmark, sharp as a fishhook. His breath shortened. The world narrowed to that tug.
Elandor was beside him before he could speak, hand gripping his arm.
"It's time," Star said.
They had prepared as best they could. Lila had brewed a draught from nightshade and dreamroot—strong enough to drop a man into deep, dreamless sleep. The hope was simple: if Star was unconscious, Cassian could not reach the memory.
Star sat on a broken stone bench, back against the wall. The others formed a loose circle, weapons ready, faces grim.
Elandor knelt in front of him, cup in hand.
"Drink," he said softly.
