Night had fallen fully, blanketing the world in velvet shadows and murmurs. The stars blinked dimly overhead, partially veiled behind thin drifts of cloud. Within the camp, fire pits glowed with low, flickering warmth, casting golden halos around the figures that moved carefully through the dimness.
The camp had settled—not with the weight of despair as before, but with the rhythm of routine. They had returned to normalcy, as much as could be claimed after what they had endured. The dead had been honoured. The wounded tended to. The living had eaten and slept. Now, the wheels of order turned once more.
Knights assigned to the night patrol had taken their posts, walking the outer perimeter in silent pairs. Sentries stood like carved statues, eyes sharp, spears in hand, watching the dark beyond the reach of their fires. The air was cool and damp, and the distant whisper of the river still rolled steadily, an ever-present lullaby for the wary.
