The camp had become a storm of motion.
Lanterns swung wildly, throwing frantic shadows across the ground as men and women tore through the narrow lanes between tents. Armor clinked, boots slammed against dirt, voices shouted over one another — orders, names, curses. The sharp scent of oiled steel and the bitter tang of burning pitch mixed with the cold night air.
Luca darted through it all, slipping past a soldier struggling to strap on his breastplate, weaving around a cluster of archers fumbling for their quivers. A blacksmith staggered past with a bundle of hastily sharpened spears, their tips catching the light in quick, dangerous flashes.
He wasn't running toward the battlefield. Not yet.
His path cut through the chaos toward a smaller, quieter stretch of camp — the tent where Celestia and the baby dragon slept. But even here, the air was tight with urgency.
