Elara POV:
The packhouse feels different this afternoon. Alive in a way that settles into the stone and timber, as though the walls themselves understand that something important is about to unfold. Sunlight streams through the tall windows in long, golden ribbons, warming the floor and catching along the edges of polished wood. Outside, the courtyard carries the steady rhythm of gathering — boots against stone, low conversation, the occasional ripple of laughter.
I stand near the open window, hands loosely folded at my waist, breathing in the warmth of late-day air. The scent of smoke drifts faintly upward from torches being prepared ahead of time, even though the sky remains bright and open above us. This hour feels right, suspended between full daylight and evening.
A soft knock touc
