The flight to the base was brief — the air seemed to whistle with omens. The northern winds, usually wild and erratic, bent beneath his wings as if they were charting his path. Cliff dove through low clouds, a dart of shadow and feathers, before shifting back into human form in a flash of bluish light.
He landed hard in the mud, one knee digging in, breath ragged. The camp's stench — iron, fire, sweat, leather — hit him like a punch. And what he saw churned his gut.
The base was swarming.
Elite squads moved swiftly between tents, stacking crates, sharpening blades, checking mounts. Fires crawled beneath cauldrons, armor gleamed under anxious polishing. The entire camp breathed with the taut focus of those who knew the next battle might be the last.
No shouting, no panic. Just the brutal efficiency of veterans.
