Rourke returned to the outpost with his small group of scouts, their footsteps crunching softly on the forest floor. The sun had risen higher now, casting a brighter light over the camp.
The mercenary camp was a hive of activity, with men going about their tasks, sharpening weapons, preparing meals, and tending to the horses. Rourke headed straight for the large central tent, where Garrick, the leader of their band, would be waiting. His men followed closely, their faces set with the same grim determination that Rourke felt.
Pushing aside the heavy canvas flap, Rourke stepped inside the tent. The air was cooler within, and the dim light of a single lantern illuminated the rough-hewn table where Garrick sat, poring over a map. The leader looked up as Rourke entered, his expression unreadable.
"Rourke," Garrick greeted him with a nod, his voice gravelly. "What did you find?"
