Three days drifted past the Sanatan Flame Sect, measured not in the frantic tempo of an impending crisis, but in the deliberate cadence of quiet preparation.
Before dawn could fully break, the sect was already stirring. A low autumn mist curled off the mountain peaks, pooling in the wide stone courtyards and drifting lazily between scarlet-tiled pavilions. Disciples gathered in murmuring clusters around the central plaza, their breath fogging in the crisp air. Beneath the disciplined quiet, a hum of nervous anticipation ran through the crowd; eyes darted upward every few moments toward the black silhouette anchored against the stars.
The Dark Pearl floated motionless above the mountain crest.
