The forest pressed in close, branches clawing at the sky like desperate fingers reaching for a sun that refused to linger.
Ragnar walked between Sarah and Aria, his boots sinking into the damp, leaf-matted earth with each deliberate step.
The air hung heavy with the scent of wet pine and decaying moss.
His shoulders ached—not only from the broad axe slung across his back, but from the heavier, invisible burden: the certainty that empty bellies would soon become empty graves if they did not act.
The ogres would not wait for starvation to finish what their clubs had started.
He ducked through the low doorway into the chief's meeting room.
The air inside was thicker still, layered with old smoke, sweat, and the sour edge of worry that no fire could burn away.
The others had already gathered around the long table; their eyes flicked toward him as he entered, a mixture of expectation and quiet dread.
