Morning came quietly, slipping through the thin veil of dawn like a sigh from the heavens. The soft amber light spread slowly over the camp, stretching across the scattered tents, the weary faces, and the embers that still clung to life beneath the ash. The air was cool—surprisingly gentle for the Wasteland—carrying with it the faint scent of dust and burnt wood. It wasn't the chirping of birds that woke them, for such creatures rarely braved this land, but the distant creak of shifting armour and the muted murmurs of men stirring from dreams they'd hardly had time to enjoy.
Bit by bit, the stillness broke. Knights rose first, trained instinct pulling them from their rest before the sun had even climbed high. They moved with a practised rhythm—stretching stiff joints, checking their weapons, tending to the fires. A few sparks caught on dry twigs, and flames leapt again, fed by the gentle blow of bellows made from folded cloth. Before long, the camp began to breathe anew.
