"Do not go far from me" - Vax

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Dagger, Dagger, Dagger.

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The night was heavy with tension, the kind of stillness that pressed into the lungs and made every breath feel too loud. Whitestone loomed in the distance, its silhouette barely visible against the starless sky, and the campfire behind him sputtered low, little more than a dim glow among the trees. Vox Machina had settled for the night, though no one truly rested—not with the Briarwoods ahead and the weight of what was to come gnawing at every thought.

Vax stalked through the underbrush, silent as a shadow, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of one of his daggers. Every crack of a branch, every whisper of wind through the leaves set his nerves on edge. He hated this, the waiting, the gnawing dread of what tomorrow might bring. He wanted to protect them all—his sister, his friends, the people counting on them—but the forest was too open, too uncertain, and he couldn’t shake the thought that eyes were watching from the dark.

He moved along the edge of the camp’s perimeter, cloaked form blending into the trees. His jaw was tight, his breaths measured, his mind caught somewhere between strategy and fear when the stillness broke. From the shadows ahead came the sound of hurried footsteps, too uneven, too frantic to belong to an animal. Vax turned sharply, instinct taking hold, and before he could react further, something collided with him in the dark, hard enough to stagger them both.