The Next Morning
The sun had barely begun to rise when the camp stirred with quiet efficiency. Soldiers moved through the clearing, securing their gear, dousing the last embers of the fire, and packing the supplies for the journey back to the estate. The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp earth and burnt wood, mingling with the faint rustle of armor and whispered conversations.
Esteban stood near the edge of the camp, arms crossed, watching the preparations unfold. His sharp eyes scanned each movement, ensuring everything was in order. A soldier tightened the strap on a saddle; another adjusted the packs on the supply horses. Everything was running smoothly.
The flap of a tent rustled behind him, and he turned just as Ramiro emerged, stretching with a yawn that quickly turned into a grimace. His dark hair was disheveled, his sharp features slightly drawn—he looked like a man who had spent the night wrestling with something far less tangible than sleep.
