Night had finally descended, blanketing the camp in a heavy, windless silence. The moons overhead offered only slivers of pale light, casting long, dancing shadows across the sands. The torches burned low, flickering like exhausted hearts. At the edge of the camp, a fresh mound of sand marked the burial of the fallen scout—the one who'd met his tragic end during the Ulrok ambush. A simple sword had been driven into the ground above it, acting as both a gravestone and a symbol of honour. His name, spoken quietly by his fellow knights, had been etched into memory.
There was no long ceremony. No flowery words. Just silence. A moment of heads bowed. A shared glance of respect. That was all he would've wanted anyway, Luke imagined.
