Morning light spilled faintly through the cracks of carriage No. 75, its golden rays cutting across velvet seats and glinting against the polished wood interior. Outside, the camp was alive with noise and motion. Soldiers shouted orders as they pulled down tents, the snap of ropes echoing through the morning air.
The thud of boots against packed earth mingled with the neighs of restless horses, while carriage wheels groaned as they were tested for the long journey ahead. The smell of hay, sweat, and faint embers from dying campfires clung to the air.
Arzael stirred first. His movements were deliberate, controlled, like a blade unsheathing. He sat upright, ran a hand briefly through his hair, then reached out and tapped Seraphina's shoulder with surprising gentleness. Her eyes fluttered open, pupils still hazy from sleep, but she offered a small nod. Puff shifted in her arms, yawning widely before her tiny voice broke the drowsy silence.
