He pulled the tunic over his head, smoothed it down, and reached for the rest of his clothes. Once dressed, he wore his black armor and strapped the heavy scabbard of the Dreadwing Blade on his side.
The familiar weight settled against his side like a trusted old companion, someone he could trust his life with.
Only after carefully correcting it, did he step out of the tent.
The crisp morning air greeted him happily.
Sol paused just outside the entrance and took a slow, deep breath.
The cold mountain air filled his lungs, carrying the mingled scents of grass, woodsmoke, and roasting meat.
Before him, the valley stretched out in the soft light of dawn.
Mist still clung to the lower slopes in pale ribbons. The distant peaks were catching the first true gold of the sun, while the white limestone flats below retained the cool violet shadows of early morning.
Despite the scars of battle that still marked the ground in places, the morning itself was strikingly beautiful.
