Dawn came reluctant and thin, like a wound that refused to heal. The sun's first light dragged itself over the charred ridges, painting the world in tones of gray and rust. Smoke still drifted from the valley below, faint ribbons that curled upward as if trying to flee the earth itself. The camp was quiet — not in peace, but in that kind of heavy stillness that follows when too many things remain unspoken.
Ryon stood beside the remnants of the outer wall, his hands braced against the blackened stone. His body still ached from what had happened in the valley, though he hadn't told anyone — not Kaela, not the council, not even the medics who begged to see him. His sigils pulsed faintly under the bandages, slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of something trying to remember its name.
