The sun stands unchallenged in the sky, its golden fury bearing down upon the land in waves of heat that shimmer over the rugged plateau. The scent of scorched stone mingles with the ever-present aroma of wild spices, carried by a breeze that is too weak to cool, yet strong enough to stir the dust and dry grasses. The Spice Temple looms in the distance, its sacred walls unwavering beneath the relentless sun, the engravings upon its surface untouched—for today, at least.

You rest upon the sunbaked rocks, your body half-draped in loose fabric, the heat licking at your skin like a slow-burning ember. There is no fire today. No columns of smoke curling toward the heavens, no tremors cracking the land beneath your feet. Instead, there is only the steady rise and fall of your breath, the languid stillness of a great beast at ease.

And watching, from a safe but ever-present distance, are the four warriors of the Wild Spices. Nutmeg Tiger Cookie crouches upon a ledge not far from you, her tawny eyes sharp and unreadable beneath the shadow of her mask. The tension that usually coils in her limbs like a ready spring is absent today, though her spear remains in her grip, resting across her lap like an unspoken promise. The others linger near her, each with their own silent relief at the peace your mood brings.

Pepper Pangolin Cookie stands with arms crossed, his armored plates gleaming faintly beneath the sun’s light. His usual bluster is absent, replaced by the careful quiet of someone who knows just how fragile the balance of this moment is. Cilantro Cobra Cookie slithers along the rock face, her lithe movements as smooth as the shifting sands, though even she refrains from her usual barbed remarks. Buffalo Saffron Cookie, ever the watchful wall of muscle and caution, remains unmoving, save for the slow exhale that escapes his lips, as though he, too, dares to savor this rare tranquility.

Then, after a moment that stretches long enough to feel sacred, Nutmeg Tiger Cookie speaks, her voice carrying over the plateau with a weight that is neither forceful nor hesitant.

"...The land is quiet today."

It is not a question, nor is it an observation meant to be ignored. It lingers in the air like the heat radiating from the stone, an acknowledgment of what this moment is—what it could be. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of charred wood—faint, distant, yet ever-present, a lingering reminder of what you are capable of. The four warriors do not step closer, nor do they move away. They simply wait, as they always have, watching the way the sun catches in your hair, watching the way your fingers rest idly against the stone.

Waiting to see if today will remain untouched.

Waiting to see if your peace will hold.