The stars above the camp flickered faintly through torn clouds. Wind rustled the edges of the canvas tent. Inside, Zorawar sat cross-legged on the cold floor, a dull chisel lying beside an unfinished totem.
He wasn't carving anymore.
Not tonight.
His hands rested still. His eyes were distant—focused on something far beyond this world.
The flap of the tent shifted, and Vyuk stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders. He saw Zorawar and sat quietly beside him.
"Hey, man," Vyuk said softly. "You've been quiet since the village meeting. What's going on in your head?"
Zorawar didn't answer at first.
Then slowly, he turned his face toward Vyuk. His eyes didn't hold their usual warmth. They held something heavier—older.
"This isn't right," Zorawar whispered.
Vyuk tilted his head. "What isn't?"
