Veyla knelt, her tiny black fingers falling into the practiced pose, yet the calm would not come. The surface world’s noise pressed too hard against her mind: the endless sigh of the wind through trees, the whisper of stars above that never dimmed, and the steady, maddening rhythm of mortal breathing beside her. Drow of the Underdark needed no such indulgence as sleep. They slipped into the trance with the ease of drawing breath. But up here, beneath this unyielding sky, it was harder. Everything was harder. Her companions’ snores filled the camp like small thunderclaps. She tried to ignore them, tried to center herself in the dark well of her thoughts. But the light, always the damned light, lingered behind her eyes, mocking her.