It was a new day, but the Orcs did not celebrate. Dawn spilled pale light over the camp, and all it revealed was grief. Families huddled together, weeping for the fallen; the name on every tongue was Orakh.
The air felt heavy, like a thick smog pressing down on hearts and lungs. Even the clan fire burned low, as if it mourned with them.
No one had the energy to be cheerful or even keep the flames fed. Limbs were leaden from sleepless nights, eyes rimmed red from watch and war. The clan waited for the chieftain's word like puppets with cut strings, swaying but not moving.
