The three hours of rest passed like a bated breath. The fossilized reefs acted as a natural dampener, swallowing the sound of the wind and the restless shifting of the horses. Aden didn't sleep; he remained in a state of hyper-vigilance, his internal clock ticking down the seconds until the optimal window for departure.
At the exact moment the moon dipped behind the jagged spine of the Iron-Ridge, Aden opened his eyes. The sapphire mist in his irises was cold and clear.
"Wake them," Aden said.
The camp came to life with a practiced, funereal quiet. There were no shouts, no clatter of armor—only the soft rustle of canvas and the low, rhythmic thrum of Eren maintaining his synchronization with the stone. The mercenaries moved like shadows, their faces etched with the kind of exhaustion that had long since turned into a dull, mechanical compliance.
