The camp was alive with activity as dawn painted the horizon in pale shades of orange and pink. Soldiers moved sluggishly through the camp, their armor clinking softly, boots crunching on the frost-laden grass. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke from the cookfires, where pots of thin stew bubbled faintly. Some men cleaned their weapons, others checked their gear, but all carried the weariness of the campaign etched into their expressions.
Among them, Lucius and Marcus, two of the twenty soldiers who had led the disguised refugees to breach the gates of Arduronaven, sat cross-legged on the dew-soaked ground. They leaned against their packs, the morning chill barely bothering them, as they shared a quiet conversation. The bags under their eyes spoke of exhaustion, but their laughter was light, tinged with the satisfaction of men well-rewarded for their efforts.
