The orange glow of the dying bonfire flickered across the faces of the Kanan tribe members, casting long, wavering shadows that danced against the thatched walls of the huts. The night air was cooling rapidly, but the heat within the circle was maintained by a mixture of crackling wood and the simmering, unspoken tensions of the family. Nula and Susan sat close together, their faces etched with the familiar lines of worry that had become their constant companions since the men had departed. They spoke in hushed, anxious tones, dissecting the silence of the forest and the lack of news from the Hague borders.
"I cannot help but feel a chill in my bones," Susan whispered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Ron is never this late. Even with border disputes, he always finds a way to send a runner."
