It had passed midnight.
The stars still shimmered above, scattered like pale embers across the dark canvas of the sky, but beneath their silent gaze, the camp stirred to life once again. One by one, fires were doused, tents were folded, and the faint rustle of movement filled the once still air. The Crusade was waking.
No one spoke much. There were no morning greetings, no idle chatter, no laughter to break the quiet. Instead, the sound that reigned was the dull clinking of armour, the rasp of leather straps being tightened, the low growl of tigers shaking off their sleep. It was not a noisy wake—far from it. It was deliberate, mechanical, almost ritualistic. The kind of silence that came before something monumental.
