The sun had begun its slow descent, its glare still harsh but no longer blinding. A faint breeze carried the scent of heated sand and the quiet hum of exhaustion from the crusade's camp. Many were resting now, their faces streaked with sweat and weariness, while others sat quietly, staring into the horizon as if the endless expanse might whisper encouragement.
Luke, however, was not one to sit still. His eyes traced the rows of tired men and women, noting the heaviness in their movements, the dullness replacing what had once been fiery resolve. It wasn't just fatigue—it was morale. The invisible rot that could undo even the strongest of armies.
He found Saint Cynthia sitting beneath a half-collapsed awning, surrounded by a few attendants. Her expression was serene as always, but Luke knew better than to mistake that calm for detachment. When she noticed him approaching, she gave a small nod, gesturing for him to sit beside her.
"You seem troubled," she said softly.
