As the afternoon sun tilted westward, long shadows crept across the clearing. The laughter didn't stop, but it mellowed—like the warmth of the day had begun to sink into everyone's bones. There was a calm, rare and precious, that settled over the group like a warm blanket.
Inigo walked the edge of the field, taking quiet stock. The air smelled of moss, cider, and smoke. Not gunpowder. Not sweat or oil. Just clean, living earth.
He stopped near the tree where Meryl sat cross-legged, sketching with surprising focus. Her charcoal lines traced the curve of the treeline, with faint outlines of JLTVs behind the picnic setup.
"You draw?" he asked.
Meryl looked up, startled, then nodded. "My older brother taught me. Before he left."
"Soldier?"
"Hunter," she said. "Didn't come back from the Wyrmwoods."
Inigo said nothing for a moment. "You've got an eye. Keep sketching. Even if war comes—it's good to remember what peace looks like."
She blinked at that. "Yes, Instructor."
