The morning air in Barcken was crisp, smelling faintly of dew and the smoke of early hearths. The streets were beginning to stir, merchants raising their shutters and children chasing each other through the damp cobblestone alleys. Luke and Ilyrana stepped out from the inn after finishing their breakfast, the last remnants of warmth from the meal still lingering in his chest. The world felt calmer, quieter—at least compared to the chaos that had preceded their return.
They followed the path that curved through Barcken's stone corridors until the towering main gate came into view. From afar, they could already see the faint shimmer of polished metal, the disciplined movements of armoured figures gathered near the gatehouse. These weren't Virencian knights—Luke could tell at a glance. Their armour carried a more angular design, silver plates trimmed with blue enamel, the sigil of a rearing stag upon their cloaks. The knights of Nateron.
