The first gray light of dawn bled across the mountain ridges when the sound of movement stirred through the mercenary quarters. Bedrolls shifted, boots scraped against the wooden floor, muted voices rose as men and women stretched stiff muscles and gathered gear. The smell of boiled grain and bitter tea wafted faintly from the caravan's cookfires outside.
Rhyka was the last to emerge from his roll.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck as though he had simply overslept. But as soon as his golden eyes flicked toward the group gathered at the far side of the room, his composure slipped for just a fraction of a second.
The four Rank 3 mercenaries were already awake, already assembled. Selvara, Cerys, Kael, and Doran sat across from Nero, their cloaks draped neatly around their shoulders, their posture relaxed but alert. They were murmuring among themselves in low tones, the kind of conversation that carried the weight of familiarity.
