Flames swayed quietly, painting the night in gold and shadow. The warmth felt hollow now, like a dying heartbeat forcing a corpse to pretend it still lived. The air was heavy, thick with grief and smoke, as if the forest itself mourned in silence. Even the insects had stopped chirping, their rhythm drowned beneath the weight of something far greater... an unseen stillness, ancient and cruel.
The moon hung above, pale and watchful, spilling its cold light across the ground where blood had already dried. It was a scene where life and death coexisted, neither winning nor surrendering.
Veythor swung slowly on the chain that bound him, his figure half-shadowed by the dying fire. The chain creaked with every faint movement, echoing through the clearing like a ghost's breath. Around them, the tribe lay shrouded in silence. The entire camp felt like a graveyard that still breathed... the kind that had forgotten whether it belonged to the living or the dead.
