After the last couple days, the quiet felt almost strange to Drust. Welcome, but odd nonetheless. The gentle sound of Elayra’s relaxed breaths helped to ease some of the tension eternally threatening to strangle him. He just had to focus on the positives.
	The princess was safe. Hatter’s boy had been found. And they had all survived Ghent’s first day back in Wonderland. At long last, the boy’s training would begin.
	But it was late in coming. Ghent had already shown the vinifcium fighting instinct was either latent or nonexistent. He’d lived a coddled life, that much was obvious by his appearance alone. The chances of the boy becoming a decent fighter in the short time they needed were nonexistent at best.
	Drust scowled. He quickly banished the creeping thoughts. Forcing his mind to stop its muddled, mixed thoughts, he focused fully once more on the sounds of life—and death—around him. He let his senses take over his mind, pushing the Curse as far from the forefront as possible. 
	At the sound of Ghent's gasp amidst the relatively quiet night, Drust's hand reached instinctively for his katana still sticking out from the ground. He quickly looked toward the boy, his muscles tensed readily.
	But everything appeared fine. Deducing Ghent’s action to be nothing more than a reaction to returning to the living world, he let out a slow, quiet sigh. He released his katana and forced some of the tightness from his muscles. Closing his eyes again, he did his best to mentally brace himself for whatever news Ghent brought.
	Good or bad, he [i]would[/i] stay calm.
	He listened to Ghent’s rustlings as the boy checked for his father’s gifts. Drust tracked Ghent’s steps by sound, his eyes still closed.
	“You made it back,” he observed quietly as Ghent neared, his monotone voice ever unreadable.
	Eyes still closed, he let out a relieved breath at Ghent’s news. That was one setback out of the way.
	“Good.” He nodded stiffly. “We can’t afford more delays.” The corner of his mouth twitched into an irate sneer. He took another slow breath as his lips evened out.
	He opened his eyes and looked Ghent over. The boy looked troubled. More troubled than normal, that was. His skin shone with an unusual pallor in the flickering light of the camp's fire. The shadows played over Ghent's drawn face, the expression from more than just the chill of being away from the warmth.
	Drust’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Something had happened to the boy in the Betwixt.
	He cast the clearing a quick, precautionary glance. Only the shadow of his katana moved about. It danced with the whims of the flames, the elemental likeness of the weapon's handle melting into the darkness behind it. A faint, chilled wind blew through the clearing. It carried the sweet scents of the forest and the nearly imperceptible phantom-decay of the dead.
	But nothing seemed out of place. Nothing outside the Betwixt, anyway.
	“You look ill, boy.” His suspicion leaked into his voice. With a quick, tiny sigh through his nose, he got to one knee and turned to his pack. He reached inside, then withdraw his wadded cloak. “Rest, if you desire.” He handed the tattered brown garment to Ghent, offering it as a blanket. “As established, I have first watch. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn to take over.”