After what felt like hours, the group finally reached a clearing where the signs of an abandoned camp began to emerge through the misty dusk. The fire pit was long dead, a black crater in the earth surrounded by broken stones. Torn canvas fluttered from half-collapsed tents. Discarded gear littered the edges, as if dropped in haste or left behind with a promise to return.
Timur was the first to react. His eyes scanned the familiar chaos with a grunt of recognition. "Oh, nothing's gone yet. Good," he muttered, and immediately began striding toward the remnants.
Melisande didn't speak. Her steps quickened as her eyes landed on a small, half-crushed wooden crate—the faint clinking inside unmistakable. She dropped to her knees beside it, opening the lid with a mix of urgency and reverence.
"Still intact," she murmured, relief softening her usually chipper tone. "Thank the stars."
