Morning arrived, and Teclos was on his feet again.
Yesterday's festival lanterns had long since burned out, and only a few scraps of colored ribbon still clung to fence posts and stall frames. Dew settled over the rooftops of Kolma's town quarter, and everything was still and peaceful.
Inside Teclos' home, the scent of warm bread and honeyed porridge filled the air.
His mother stood by the hearth, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, stirring a pot with steady hands. His father sat already dressed, though less lively than usual, rubbing his temples and regretting one cup too many from the night before.
Teclos entered dressed more comfortably, in clothes that would allow him to exercise freely. He had chosen a clean linen shirt—the one without mended tears at the sleeves—and fastened his leather tunic properly with a belt. His leather boots were strapped tightly, and he wore grey wool pants.
His mother noticed him coming in.
"You're up early," she said with a knowing smile.
