Morning in Nateron arrived gently, the way it always had—without fanfare, without urgency. Sunlight slipped over tiled rooftops and rolled slowly down the pale stone walls of the cathedral, warming the quiet courtyard where dew still clung stubbornly to leaves and petals. The air smelled faintly of soil and blooming herbs, a comforting scent that spoke not of war or hardship, but of routine.
Gareth tilted the watering can carefully, letting a thin stream pour over a row of newly planted lilies. The soil darkened instantly, drinking deeply, and he adjusted his stance with practised ease. Years ago, his hands had known only the weight of a sword, fingers calloused from gripping hilts and shields. Now they moved just as naturally among stems and roots.
He preferred it this way.
At least for mornings like this.
