The clan fire crackled low, as if even the flames were mourning.
Ash drifted like gray snow across the silent camp. Every Orc stood gathered around the fire—heads bowed, weapons grounded, and hearts heavy. They mourned their fallen warriors. They mourned Orakh. They mourned Draki.
And they mourned the peace that would never return.
Sharina stood closest to the fire, her silhouette framed by embers. Her carved-stone expression did not soften—not even as another log split with a snap, sparks scattering into the air like fleeing fireflies. She was a pillar refusing to collapse… but inside, she was hollow.
She had not spoken a single word since she saw Draki's corpse.
The grief of a mother was not loud today—but it was deep, sharp, and cold.
Zukulum stepped into the firelight, raising her wrinkled arms high. "Silence," her aged voice commanded.
