Izikel and Sophia found a spot near a broken tree stump, far enough from the main camp to be alone, but close enough that they could still hear the sounds of the Saints preparing to march. The stillness of the forest contrasted the quiet tension among the warriors.
They sat in silence for a while, just watching.
The men moved with quiet discipline, shifting from one place to another, checking weapons and repacking supplies. They were waiting for the move-out order from the First Captain. There was no idle chatter, no complaints—only focus and grim resolve.
Izikel's eyes followed a young man no older than himself, adjusting the leather strap on his armor. There was blood on his sleeve that hadn't been cleaned. He looked calm. Too calm.
"What's the point in all this?" Izikel finally asked, his voice low but heavy. "I don't get it. Why go out of your way just to put your life in danger like this?"
Sophia turned to him, eyebrows raised slightly.
