(Vladford POV)
Dawn arrived quietly.
No horns.
No alarms.
Just the slow thinning of darkness as pale light crept over the jagged line of mountains to the north.
I stood at the edge of the rebel camp, breath fogging in the cold air, watching frost melt from the tips of grass beneath my boots. Fires burned low behind me—controlled, banked, watched. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive.
That alone told me how much had changed.
Two years ago, dawn had meant marching orders barked by imperial officers. It had meant chains disguised as routine, obedience mistaken for survival.
Now, dawn meant choice.
The mark at my neck pulsed faintly—not painful, not silent. Present. A reminder rather than a command.
I touched it briefly, then lowered my hand.
Not today.
Behind me, the camp was already awake. Scouts returning from night patrols. Quartermasters arguing quietly over supplies. Fighters sharpening blades with the steady focus of people who expected to use them.
No banners flew.
