The sun, once a steady beacon above, had now dipped into hues of amber and rose, bleeding across the horizon like spilt wine. Before they knew it, dusk had arrived, stealing the warmth from the air and casting long, creeping shadows across the winding path. The faint rhythmic clatter of armour and reins had taken on a more subdued tone, almost respectful of the coming dark.
It was time to make camp.
Commander Valerie raised her arm, the signal clear. The caravan slowed, and soon the knights dismounted, their boots thudding into soft earth and dry grass. In no time, the area came to life with quiet, disciplined motion—tents being pitched, sentries assigned, fires kindled. The air buzzed with the practised efficiency of soldiers who had done this a thousand times before. Yet beneath it all, a thread of unease remained.
