The night passed in heavy, undisturbed quiet beneath the ironwood beams of the Zerith Great Lodge.
When the first pale sliver of dawn began to bleed across the eastern sky, cutting through the thick sulfurous mists of the lowlands, Sol slowly opened his eyes. After a good night of sleep, his mind was sharp and refreshed, stripped out of the previous fatigue.
Beside him, Kira and Zeyra were already stirring beneath the thick furs, their natural warrior instincts waking them before the morning horns could sound.
Without wasting a breath on idle conversation, the three prepared their gear.
Sol first wore his black armor, checked the tautness of his boots,
He lifted the Dreadwing blade, testing its balance before sliding it smoothly into the leather baldric slung on his side.
At his hip, the leather pouch holding the Mountain-Marrow Stone hung securely, its heavy, grounding resonance a quiet reminder of the threshold awaiting him once this campaign was finished.
