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[Image: A storm-scarred plateau at dawn, cracked earth steaming under a sky bruised with fading purple and rising gold. Tobal’s scarred face gleams with sweat under a worn blue militia coat, medallion pulsing soft gold. Fiona’s sky blue gown hangs tattered on her lean frame, chestnut hair tangled and still, golden threads humming low. Rafe’s wiry frame slouches in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, grin faint. Becca’s red hair tangles wildly under a cloak of deep brown and russet, eyes sharp. Valentine’s shaggy gray-brown fur bristles as he sniffs the air—vivid, tense, with the distant hiss of retreating scales]
Tobal stood on the plateau’s edge, boots crunching cracked earth still warm from the night’s storm, steam curling faint around his legs. The dawn sky stretched bruised—purple fading into gold—casting a thin light over the jagged scars of battle, mud streaked with green-black blood. His blue militia coat—torn at the sleeve—hung damp and heavy on his broad frame, his scarred face gleaming with sweat, short dark hair clinging wet to his brow. The medallion in his hand pulsed a soft gold, its warmth a steady throb against his calloused palm, stirring a quiet ache of hunger that lingered from the fight.
Fiona stood close, her sky blue gown tattered and clinging to her lean frame, mud caked along the hem where it brushed crushed stone. Her chestnut hair lay tangled and still, strands stuck to her sharp cheeks, golden threads humming low in her steady fingers—her breath rasped soft, sharp with the tang of wet earth, her lithe form taut with a flicker of resolve, eyes scanning the horizon’s haze. Rafe slouched a step back, his wiry frame loose in a patched cloak of faded green and gray, wool stiff with dried rain—his grin flickered faint, a sly edge cutting his thin face as he twirled his knife, dawn glinting off the blade. Becca flanked him, her cloak of deep brown and russet streaked with mud, red hair tangled wildly under the hood—her fierce eyes glinted, catching the rising gold, her sturdy curves braced against the morning chill, she breathed a low hiss of pride. Valentine paced ahead, his shaggy gray-brown fur bristling, coarse and damp as he sniffed the air—his growl rumbled low, fading into the plateau’s hush.
The plateau sprawled raw—cracked earth hissed with steam, faint echoes of reptilian hisses retreating into the ravine below, their green-black trails smearing the mud. Tobal shifted, his chest tightening as a distant scrape pricked his ears—faint, fleeting—blending with the wind’s low moan. The air hung thick—earth-scented, cool—dawn pressing in like a held breath. He turned—eyes sweeping the Knights—his voice a low rasp, rough against the stillness. “They’re pulling back.” The medallion pulsed—gold light spilling soft—his scarred hand steadied, though his pulse thrummed with a restless edge. A stone clattered far off—a bird’s cry cut the haze—his breath caught.
Rafe tilted his head, cloak tugging at his wiry shoulders, his grin thinning as his breath fogged faintly in the chill. “Them? Running already?” He flicked his knife—a faint hiss answered from the ravine—Valentine’s ears twitched, his damp fur bristling as he let out a soft whine. Rafe’s laugh rasped—dry, sharp—his lean hand steadying as the wind moaned, carrying a distant snarl.
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Fiona stepped closer, gown snagging on a jagged rock, threads weaving a soft arc of gold that shivered in the dawn. “They’re stronger than us,” she said—voice low, clear—her gaze piercing Rafe’s, though her fingers curled tight, the chill biting her knuckles. Her chestnut hair stayed still, pressed flat by damp, and her eyes met Tobal’s—a shared fire threading alive between them, her lean grace sparking a quiet ache. A tail scraped below—faint, retreating—her jaw tightened, breath steady with resolve.
Becca crossed her arms, red hair sticking under her russet hood, her voice sharp but softened as the wind tugged her cloak. “Stronger? Then why are they retreating?” She kicked a shard of stone—her fierce eyes narrowed—glancing from Fiona to Tobal, pride flickering in her gaze, her shapely form coiled with restless heat. A low growl faded—distant, broken—her breath eased, slow and sharp, the chill prickling her lips.
Tobal sank to one knee—coat brushing the cracked earth—his free hand settling on Valentine’s flank, the dog’s coarse fur warm as he pressed close, tail slowing. “We will rest later,” he said—gruff, low—his scarred face tilting to Becca’s, eyes dark with a fire that burned deep, his broad build radiating a quiet power. “Watch their retreat.” The medallion’s glow deepened—its hum threading his voice—his chest burned, a fierce pulse of hunger he couldn’t quell. A shadow shifted below—steam hissed—Becca’s stance softened, her shoulders easing as the sound drifted, leaving only the wind’s sigh.
Valentine nosed forward—mud crunched—a soft bark cut the air as he sniffed a reptilian trail, fur bristling. Tobal rose, medallion steady, his scarred face hardening—something cold twisted in his gut, bitter as the dawn, a low growl of anger beneath it. “What’s that!” Rafe muttered—half a laugh—his knife twirling as he stepped forward, wiry frame taut with a flicker of thrill. A faint hiss curled up—distant, fading—Fiona’s threads pulsed, gold threading boldly—her voice steady as stone. “Hold your ground.” Tobal’s gaze struck Rafe—hard, fierce—his growl a whisper. “Sense them.” He stepped toward the edge—boots grinding—the wind curling tighter, thick with earth and echoes.
The haze thickened—steam rose from the cracks, reptilian trails fading into the ravine’s depths, their shadows a whisper of the night’s fury. Cal—a wiry Knight with tangled brown hair—stumbled, his breath a ragged gasp, eyes wide where a claw mark gleamed in the mud. Tobal’s hand clamped his shoulder—medallion blazing soft—his grip iron, though his own pulse raced, a scrape in the distance spiking his ears, his broad chest tight with a flicker of dread. “Breathe,” he murmured—voice low, rough—earth sharp in his throat. Cal’s chest shuddered—his eyes squeezed shut—then opened, fiercer, a faint spark of pride catching as a bird’s wing fluttered overhead.
Fiona’s threads wove wider—gold flickering like a breath—her gaze slid to Becca, the dawn’s chill cutting her lean face. “Why the retreat?” Becca asked—voice softer—her edge blunted, almost lost in the haze, her sturdy form trembling with a mix of rage and hope. A stone rolled below—closer, then gone—Fiona’s lips curved, just a breath—chestnut hair still and damp. “To run—to live.” Rafe’s laugh rasped—dry, warm—his knife stilling as he brushed mud off his cloak, wiry frame alive with a reckless spark. Tobal nodded—medallion pulsing—wind curling low, a faint rumble rolling distant, a whisper of what’s next. The Knights stood—scarred, steady—echoes fading into the dawn.