Morning's gentle light fluttered against Rosacer's eyelids, forcing them open in reluctant surrender. He winced and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms before letting out a quiet breath.
"Morning," he muttered as he pushed himself upright.
He had slept well. Too well. His body felt light, his mind clear, and for a fleeting moment, he almost felt fulfilled. The sensation unsettled him more than exhaustion ever had.
Rosacer summoned his inventory. The familiar list unfolded before his eyes, faint and translucent. The carving knife seal pulsed dully, its hunger unresolved. It still required a sacrifice.
"I should probably check the traps on the way," he murmured.
He rose slowly, scanning the campsite. Nothing had been disturbed. No footprints. No broken branches. The mountain remained silent, watching. He turned toward the rising sun, its warmth brushing his face, then checked his inventory once more. The foxtail herb rested safely within.
