Dawn came slowly over the desert, spilling light like molten gold over the dunes. The wind carried with it a faint chill—one that would soon be burned away once the sun fully rose—but for now, it was gentle, brushing against tents and armour with soft persistence.
The camp stirred to life. The first voices were quiet, weary murmurs between soldiers who had barely slept. Then came the clatter of armour plates, the low growl of tigers as they were harnessed, and the steady rhythm of movement as the crusaders began to pack away what little they had left.
Their destination had already been decided the night before—Barcken, the Trade Centre that lay to the west of the Wasteland. It was the closest mark of civilisation beyond the endless sands, and more importantly, it was where the wounded could receive proper treatment. The healers had agreed: if they lingered here any longer, infection and exhaustion would claim more lives than any enemy blade could.
