Caelan POV:
By the time I return to the packhouse, the sun has climbed high enough to warm the pale stone beneath my feet.
Patrols rotate along the outer paths with practiced ease, voices low and familiar as they exchange brief reports; the lower ring carries the dull, rhythmic thud of bodies meeting earth as sparring pairs test balance and endurance rather than dominance, breath and muscle working in quiet harmony. From the open doors of the packhouse drifts the scent of coffee and fresh bread, grounding and unpretentious, a reminder that strength here has always been built alongside care.
This is what I protect.
And it is precisely because of this, because of the people moving within it, because of the trust it took years to rebuild, that I will not mishandle what Elara asked of me.
