At dawn, the sun crested the horizon, casting golden light across the vast expanse of the Western Mountains.
Hutson emerged from his tent, inhaling the crisp morning air. A droplet of dew slid off the overhead branches, landing cool against his face.
The remnants of last night's fire smoldered, faint embers still pulsing with warmth. Without hesitation, Hutson tossed a few dry twigs into the pit, channeling fire-elemental particles to reignite the flames. The embers flared to life, their glow reflecting off the iron pot suspended above. Inside, the remnants of last night's meal simmered gently—his breakfast, reheating in the flickering firelight.
Behind him, Fried stirred, groggy from sleep.
Not every sorcerer replaced sleep with meditation—few possessed the relentless discipline of Hutson. For those like Fried, who struggled to advance to the rank of official sorcerer, sleep was a far more tempting indulgence.
