The sun had long begun its descent, spilling its golden hue across the vast stretch of the Wasteland. The sky was painted in layers of orange and violet, clouds drifting lazily like streaks of smoke from some distant fire. The camp, which had only an hour ago been filled with laughter, cheers, and awe, was now buzzing with activity again. The soldiers, knights, clerics, and pilgrims—every soul that had gathered to watch Luke's so-called "Story of Us"—were back on their feet, their morale rejuvenated.
The air no longer felt as heavy. Even the oppressive heat seemed to have eased its grip. What had been an endless stretch of sand and fatigue now felt… conquerable. Spirits, once weighed down by exhaustion and doubt, burned bright once more.
"Form up! Double line—move out in formation!" came the firm command of one of the generals. His voice carried over the dunes, but this time, instead of sluggish groans and dragging feet, there was order—purpose.
