The first rays of dawn slowly crept across the eastern horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and gold.
The campsite, which had been filled with quiet conversations and crackling campfires the previous evening, was already stirring with activity.
Merchants folded their tents with practiced efficiency while hired guards inspected wagon wheels and tightened harnesses on their horses. The smell of breakfast drifted through the cool morning air as iron pots hung over small fires, cooking porridge, soup, and freshly baked flatbread.
John opened his eyes to the familiar sounds.
For a moment, he remained lying on his bedroll, listening.
It was different from Greenhollow.
Back there, mornings began with birdsong, the ringing of the village blacksmith's hammer, and the laughter of children running through the streets.
Here...
Everything felt purposeful.
Everyone was preparing for the road.
For business.
For another destination.
