Her fingers twitched against the earth as a star shot across the sky, a death omen. But she didn't flinch, didn't stir. Her tent tilted in the wind, canvas flapping like a wounded bird. The sleeping bag cradled her still form, the silver pin at her throat glinting once, then gone.

The prayer beads spilled from her hand. Once. Twice. Each click carried a name. She'd called for it, had asked the night to bring her something pure, something worth dying for. The wind shifted. Her lips curled.

The wind stilled. Her chest didn't rise. When dawn broke, the beads had stopped clicking. Her tent lay open, empty. The only thing left was a sheet of paper pinned down by a star, for the next one to find.