The morning sun was barely over the trees when Roran's camp stirred to life. Men and women packed their gear, saddled their horses, and checked their weapons with the practiced efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times before.
There was no rush, no panic—just the steady rhythm of people who knew what they were doing and trusted the man leading them.
Roran stood apart from the others, watching the eastern horizon. His sword was strapped to his back, and his hand rested on the hilt, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the leather.
He was thinking about the village, about the people who lived there, about what would happen to them if no one came to help.
"Still thinking about that place?" Aldric asked, walking up beside him.
"...I am thinking about the people who have no one else to turn to," Roran said. "That is why we started this group, is it not? To be the ones who show up when no one else will."
