DAMIAN'S POV
The night did not retreat when dawn came.
It only thinned, like breath fogging glass, reluctant to disappear entirely.
Afin stood at the edge of the ridge where the old watchtower once leaned, its stones long collapsed into a ring of memory and moss. The valley below lay quiet—too quiet—wrapped in a gray-blue hush that pressed against the ears. This silence was not peace. It was the held breath before something decided whether to live or kill.
He rested his weight on his back foot, hand near the hilt at his side, eyes fixed on the road cutting through the lowlands. That road had once carried grain, children, messengers, laughter. Now it carried nothing. Not even dust dared rise from it.
Behind him, the others waited without speaking.
They had learned, over weeks like years and years like lifetimes, that words before movement were a luxury. Every sound had a cost. Every unnecessary thought, a danger.
Afin exhaled slowly and finally turned.
"We move," he said.
