The Sanatan Flame Sect was alive.
Not in any loud or dramatic way—no banners snapping in urgency, no bells ringing warnings. Just… alive, the way a place becomes when people feel safe enough to exist without thinking about it.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the mountain terraces, warm and forgiving. It painted long shadows along the stone paths, soaking into the pale rock until it radiated heat back into bare feet and worn leather soles alike. The training grounds echoed with dull impacts—fists meeting padded posts, wooden staves clacking together—punctuated by breathy laughter and the occasional groan of someone pushed just past their comfort.
Somewhere near the lower courtyard, a kettle whistled sharply.
"For the love of—who left it again?" a voice complained, followed by hurried footsteps and a sheepish laugh.
Life continued.
