The fifth morning broke quiet.
Not with Inigo's usual sharp commands or the sound of rifles being racked and loaded—but with the soft hum of birdsong, drifting through the trees above a camp that, for once, was not preparing for war.
The recruits stirred slowly, blinking against the sunlight that filtered through the canopy in scattered gold. There was no bell. No drills. Just the scent of firewood and the faint, unfamiliar aroma of something… sweet.
Hal sat up groggily. "Is that… bread?"
"It smells like honey," Brenna mumbled from her cot, already pulling on her boots out of habit.
But before anyone could fully fall into the rhythm of training, a new sound cut through the camp.
Laughter.
Lyra's.
They turned to see her near the supply tent, holding a wooden tray with warm loaves and jars of wildberry jam. She wasn't in her usual half-armor or jacket, but a light tunic rolled at the sleeves. There was a glint in her eye that none of them had seen before.
