Morning crept into Barcken like a slow breath, sunlight sliding across the rooftops and warming the stone walls that had grown cold overnight. Inside Hearthhall Inn, Luke and Ilyrana stirred with the first clatter of dishes from the common room below. They rose without rush, yet with a kind of quiet purpose hanging in the air — the sort that comes only when a decision has been made.
Their room was humble, cluttered with the remains of a two-day stay. Blankets tossed aside, packs half-opened, the faint scent of lavender oil that Ilyrana kept in her satchel lingered in the corners. They didn't speak much at first; the rhythm of packing said enough. Luke folded the worn blanket they carried with them. Ilyrana checked their waterskins, tightened the straps of their satchels, and ensured nothing was left behind under the bed or tucked behind the table.
Their bags rested by the door by the time the sun was fully up.
