The dirt pressed cold and unyielding against Veythor's cheek, every grain biting into his skin beneath the weight of Emata's foot. The pressure wasn't just physical it was meant to humiliate, to grind him into the earth like something lesser than human.
Above him, the old woman's cackling voice cut through the night, a jagged sound that mingled with the tribesfolk's laughter. Together, their voices formed a chorus of mockery, a cruel hymn carried by the crackling flames of the bonfire.
Shimi flinched at every note of it, her slender body trembling as though each laugh were a blade pressed against her throat. Raika's face, in contrast, was blank, drained of all color, hollow like a man already halfway buried in the earth. His spirit seemed fractured, teetering on the edge of collapse.
