Lara, with her keen senses, woke up right away. She slipped out of her bedding, boots half-laced, and made her way to the tent shared by the women and children. The air was heavy with the scent of earth, smoke, and something else—fear.
Inside, by the dim light of a flickering lantern, Layka was wiping the sweat from Atalia's brow with a rag dampened from the water basin beside her.
"I think she's going into labor," Layka whispered, her voice tight with worry.
The cramped space felt smaller than ever. Mothers huddled with their children, whispering prayers, casting anxious glances toward Atalia's curled form. Lara's gaze darted to the entrance—Amnon stood just outside, tall and tense, his frame blocking the moonlight.
"Atalia…" he said softly, peering inside. "Are you alright?"
Lara's voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the haze. "General. We need to move her—now. My tent is better lit and has space. Layka, help clear it."
