Swift couldn’t sleep.

  Even after he and Carlos switched shifts, even tucked into his bivy sack under the slight slope of their foxhole, his mind wouldn’t shut off. The sound in the trees still echoed behind his eyes. Not loud, but constant—like a whisper that never stops.

  He lay there motionless, staring into the canopy overhead. Stars poked through the gaps in the branches. No clouds. No movement.

  His vest lay beside him in the dark, close enough to grab if needed. One hand rested on the rolled cloak beneath his head. The other still hovered near Excalibur.

  He could’ve seen it if he wore the helmet.

  But what would Carlos have said if he’d seen the helmet? That level of craftsmanship wasn’t common. Swift couldn’t afford the attention just yet. Still... how good was the night vision, really?

  I need to know.

  He couldn’t test it in Crescent City. Couldn’t test it with Carlos watching. But now—here, with everyone sleeping, and enough distance to make excuses—this was his shot.

  Swift moved slowly, unbuttoning the bivy sack with care. The cold air pierced his skin until he unrolled and fully wore his flight suit. He reached into his pack and carefully pulled out three things: his latrine kit, a canteen, and the wrapped helmet, tucked inside a cloth.

  Carlos shifted.

  “Where you going?” Carlos asked without looking up.

  “Dropping bombs in enemy territory.”

  Carlos made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “What?”

  Swift lifted the latrine kit slightly, making sure the silhouette was obvious.

  “Duty calls.”

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  Carlos rolled back over. “Be careful.”

  Swift grabbed the rest of his gear, and moved quietly toward the edge of the camp.

  Two gunfighters were posted near the northern center of the campsite—one leaning against a stump, the other crouched near a rock pile. As Swift approached, they tensed slightly, weapons shifting—but not raised.

  “Latrine run,” Swift whispered. “Didn’t want to get mistaken for a nightcrawler.”

  One of them nodded and pointed off to the right. “Don’t go more than fifty steps. Enough for privacy. Close enough to yell.”

  “Thanks.”

  Swift followed the direction given, weaving quietly through the underbrush. The further he went, the more his senses sharpened. Not from fear—just habit.

  The forest here felt older. More real than the city. The bark rougher, the soil damp. Still too quiet. As he reached a slight dip in the terrain, he found a decent spot. Mostly out of sight. Good cover. He crouched, placed his gear, and sat for a moment.

  Quilted toilet paper—perfectly perforated, always hanging the right way, within easy reach.

  “A strange thing to miss,” he muttered.

  The way they handled this business here—dig a hole, hope it doesn’t freeze your backside, wipe with something that used to be a napkin—was primitive. Brutal.

  Maybe… a self-cleaning rag?

  No, wait—what if it had blessings? “Softness.” “Self-cleaning.”

  Two of the dumbest blessings imaginable.

  He almost laughed aloud. It was stupid.

  It was also brilliant.

  Shaking his head, he unwrapped the helmet.

  It felt solid in his hands. Balanced. The matte surface absorbed the low starlight, its curves exactly as he designed with Lee. The mask rotated with perfect control, and the muffs folded neatly against the helmet’s crown. He slipped it on.

  Perfect fit.

  Not too tight, just enough to settle over his head with certainty. He pulled the muffs down, one side at a time, letting them press over his ears. The world muted slightly, the ambient hush of the forest fading just a bit further into the background.

  He whispered, “Thank you, Lee.”

  Now came the moment. He brought the mask down. The soft seal settled into place around his face.

  Nothing changed.

  His vision remained mostly the same—muted starlight, shadow on shadow. The large glass visor gave him a wide field of view, but darkness still owned the woods.

  So far, the helmet was just a well-crafted mask.

  Swift stood still, listening to his own breath. He knew activating the blessing was mental, tied to focus or intent—Morrow had said as much. But back in his world, every night vision system he used had a switch. A toggle. Something physical. It felt wrong not to flip something on.

  He tried focusing harder. Willed the helmet to activate.

  Still nothing.

  Then he reached up beside his visor, fingers curling into empty air, and made a twisting motion—as if switching on a dial that wasn’t there. A quiet shift ran through the mask.

  Darkness owned nothing.