Days passed. The band fell silent, the merry songs coming from their fires no longer warmed hearts. Singing ceased, talking quieted, and anticipation vibrated in the air—and with that, fear.

Vardille began to practice meditation as he was taught in the Order, with little to no success. Three days passed, then another three, but they were still ahead of the horde. Polishing his sword became his main task throughout these days.

Mjel drew a lot. Battle maps, mostly. She studied the landscape, picturing how a battle with the enemy would play out. She avoided her band. Did not talk to Draggan at all; his brother kept his head low in her presence anyway.

Ida attempted to keep light-hearted, failing day by day. The Frozen Saint had not spoken to her for weeks. She knew what would come, but not the when. Often, she caught herself staring at Sallan. That is, Bryne. King Bryne. She lay awake at nights, twitching and turning in her sleep, never remembering her nightmares. Fortunately.

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Bryne felt the uneasiness around him. But he knew it would soon end. Amrith would get what she wanted, and balance would prevail once more. His vision was to be brought. Peace would reign over Amrith. The thought made him smile many times; the others thought he had gone insane. He saw it in their eyes. He did not care. Explaining them would be tiresome.

The civilians began to exhaust. A few of them started to disappear, a handful, day by day. Here a family, there some friends. Distant echoes of their scream followed usually a day after.

For the demons came.