The camp was quieter than usual, an uneasy stillness hanging in the air. Garran had been uncharacteristically absent, and though his circle of followers tried to hide their leader’s absence, whispers spread like wildfire.

  Tabitha stood at the edge of the camp, her piercing gaze fixed on the horizon. Beside her floated a faintly glowing green wisp, a small yet ethereal presence that pulsed faintly as though alive.

  “Are you certain they’ll make it far enough to even warrant concern?” Emmet asked, approaching her.

  Tabitha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It doesn’t matter how far they get. Garran’s foolishness has already cost us. My familiar will keep an eye on them, but I can’t promise I’ll like what it finds.”

  Garran’s group left under the cover of night, sneaking past the camp’s perimeter with an air of determination that bordered on desperation. His numbers were far smaller than he’d hoped—barely a dozen, most of them young and inexperienced. Still, they followed Garran with unwavering conviction, their hatred of the Crown’s Wrath blinding them to the impossibility of their mission.

  “This is our chance to make a difference,” Garran told them as they loaded a small vessel with hastily gathered supplies. “They won’t see us coming. We’ll strike at their heart and cripple them before they can recover.”

  His followers cheered, but the cracks in their resolve were evident.

  Hours after Garran’s departure, Tabitha sent her familiar into the skies. The green wisp soared above the waters, its light faint enough to blend with the stars. Through the familiar, Tabitha saw the world as if through a second pair of eyes, a detached observer of Garran’s doomed expedition.

  Emmet joined her at the edge of the camp, his expression grim. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing good,” Tabitha murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration. “They’ve barely left the shallows, and already their boat is struggling. It wasn’t built for a journey like this.”

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  “Neither were they,” Emmet said quietly.

  The sea was unkind to Garran and his followers. High winds battered their small vessel, and the waves grew more treacherous with each passing hour. Supplies were lost overboard, tempers flared, and fear began to set in.

  “We should turn back,” one of the younger members said, her voice trembling.

  “Turn back to what?” Garran snapped. “A life of waiting for the Crown’s Wrath to come for us? No. We push forward.”

  But the sea had other plans. As a storm rolled in, their vessel was tossed like a toy in the churning waters. Tabitha watched through her familiar’s eyes as the boat splintered and capsized, its occupants thrown into the icy embrace of the ocean.

  When the wisp returned, its glow was dimmer than usual. Tabitha caught it in her hands, closing her eyes as she absorbed the information it carried. Her expression hardened, and she turned to Emmet, who had been waiting nearby.

  “They’re gone,” she said simply.

  Emmet sighed, running a hand through his hair. “All of them?”

  “Most. A few might have made it to shore, but they’re in no condition to continue.”

  The news spread quickly through the camp, eliciting a mixture of relief and sorrow. Garran’s rebellion had ended, but it had come at a cost that weighed heavily on everyone.

  That evening, Emmet addressed the survivors. “What happened to Garran and his group is a tragedy, but it’s also a reminder. Acting out of hatred and desperation only leads to ruin. If we’re going to survive—if we’re going to build something that lasts—we need to do it together, not against each other.”

  The crowd murmured in agreement, though the loss of even a handful of their own cast a long shadow over the camp.

  Tabitha approached Emmet after the meeting, her usual sharp demeanor softened by the weight of the day. “You handled that well.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it,” Emmet admitted. “But we have to keep moving forward. For all of us.”

  “And for those we’ve lost,” Tabitha added.

  As the night settled over the camp, the survivors began to rebuild their fragile sense of unity. But the scars left by Garran’s folly would linger, a reminder of how easily desperation could tear them apart.