The forest shimmered beneath the touch of dawn.
Golden light spilled through the canopy, washing over leaves still wet with dew. The moon retreated quietly into the horizon, surrendering its reign to the sun. Luca stood beside Sylthara at the edge of the camp, watching the soft glow creep across the treetops. For a moment, the world was silent — too calm, too gentle — before the weary figures began to emerge from the tent one by one.
Rolph stepped out first, rubbing his temples as though trying to shake away a sleepless night. Victor followed, his eyes bloodshot but steady, carrying the weight of someone who could not afford to rest. Gustav stumbled behind him, stifling a yawn, while the Saintess—her golden hair muted by the pale morning light—walked out last, her expression calm yet tired.
