In the dimly lit chamber, Limon's urgent voice cut through the air like a blade, "Teresa, rouse yourself posthaste and make ready for the impending battle." Teresa, who had been reclining on the bed with a countenance of indolence, was jolted from her languor at the sound of Limon's command. Her eyes snapped open, and in an instant, the sluggishness that had clung to her was sloughed off like a discarded cloak. Swiftly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and set about donning her armor with practiced alacrity, each movement precise and purposeful.
Noticing Teresa's newfound industry, Limon grasped Celesna's arm gently and guided her into the room. "Celesna," he murmured, his tone brooking no argument, "lend me your aid in donning this plate armor." Celesna nodded mutely, her eyes filled with a steely resolve that mirrored Limon's own. Together, they worked with deft hands, the metallic clasps and buckles clicking into place with a sense of finality.
