Dawn arrived slowly. The sky remained gray, cloaked in thick clouds and a low-hanging fog that drifted over the deadlands. No birds sang. No sunlight pierced through. Only the shift in temperature marked the passing of time the cold that had once merely chilled now bit deeper, and the still fog began to stir like the breath of a giant waking from a long slumber.
Inside the main tent, Sylvia opened her eyes slowly. Silence still reigned within the room, broken only by the soft rustle of cloth as she moved. In her arms, Sofia was still asleep, her expression peaceful. Sylvia gazed at her for a moment, then rose carefully so as not to wake her.
She donned the robe laid out beside the bed pitch black fabric with purple embroidery forming patterns like roots and energy veins, subtly shifting if watched too long. Upon her back was the now-iconic emblem known across the land: a broken crown with a dark circle behind it the sigil of the Dark Queen.
