The dawn before departure arrived with a hush over Draymoor, as though the city itself held its breath. The cobbled streets were wet with dew, the air still and heavy with the scent of earth and early blooms. In the quiet, Valen stood outside his home, staring at the horizon where the pale gold of morning crept over the fields. His pack lay at his feet, the leather worn and stitched with care by Elira's hands the night before.
Dorin arrived with a heavy stride, his usual cheer replaced by a grim determination. He carried his own bag, slung over one shoulder, and wore a short sword at his hip, though it hung awkwardly, as if not yet ready to belong there.
"You ready?" Dorin asked, his voice low but steady.
Valen turned, nodding slowly. "As much as anyone can be, I guess."
Dorin gave a dry chuckle. "Feels strange, doesn't it? Yesterday we were throwing stones and arguing about which stew Lyria makes best. Now… we're soldiers."
Valen glanced toward the house, toward the window where he knew his family watched. "We're still sons. Still friends. That part doesn't change."
They walked in silence toward the town square, where others had begun to gather, young men with tired eyes and hastily packed bags, parents holding back tears, siblings clinging to goodbyes. The sky grew brighter, but the mood remained somber.
Valen looked over at Dorin. "Did you say goodbye to your mother?"
"Barely," Dorin muttered, tightening the strap of his bag. "She pretended I was just going to the next village for supplies. Said she didn't want to cry in front of me. But her hands were shaking when she tied my pack."
Valen was quiet a moment, then reached out and clasped Dorin's shoulder. "We'll come back. Both of us."
Dorin raised an eyebrow. "You always this confident in the face of certain doom?"
"Someone's got to be."
A loud horn echoed through the square, deep, commanding. The king's herald stood at the center, flanked by knights in polished armor. A cart stood nearby, hitched and waiting, with room enough for those departing from Draymoor.
"Gather now, brave sons of Vareldrin!" the herald called. "The kingdom has summoned your strength. Today, you march not as boys, but as warriors!"
The words stirred the crowd, though they felt distant to Valen, like echoes in a dream.
As they stepped forward, Amara emerged from the side of the square, her eyes locking with Valen's. She moved quickly through the crowd and threw her arms around him, pressing her face to his chest.
"I wasn't sure I'd make it," she whispered, her voice tight with unshed tears.
Valen held her close, burying his face in her hair. "I didn't want to go without seeing you again."
She looked up at him, brushing a tear from his cheek. "Remember what you promised me."
"I will. I'll come back."
They kissed, the world blurring around them, only their breath, their warmth, their love, anchoring them.
Beside them, Dorin cleared his throat loudly. "If you two don't stop, I'm going to start crying and embarrass myself in front of the entire town."
Valen gave a watery laugh. "You'd cry over bad bread."
"It was *very* stale, and I have standards."
The horn sounded again.
Amara stepped back, her hand slipping from Valen's fingers. "Go. Make them proud. Make me proud."
He nodded, turned, and climbed into the cart with Dorin. As it lurched forward, the city of Draymoor faded behind them, stone by stone, street by street, memory by memory.
The road ahead was long. But it was only just beginning.