The morning came quicker than anyone expected.
Dew clung to the tall jungle grass, and the low mist hung like a veil between the trees. Shafts of early sunlight pierced the canopy, casting golden beams across the still-damp ground. The camp slowly stirred to life—groggy, silent, and slightly tense after the events of the night before.
Liam was already up, leaning against a tree, arms crossed, staring at the ash-covered spot where the priest's remains had been burned. He hadn't slept. Not really. His mind had refused him rest, tangled in thoughts that churned like a storm.
