Tribal Meeting

The next morning arrived like the blade of an executioner—cold, sharp, and unrelenting. Dawn did not creep gently over the land; it struck, slicing through the comfort of sleep like a knife to the throat of the night. The sky bled at the edges, streaks of crimson and gold spilling across the horizon as if the gods themselves had torn open the heavens.

Torghan awoke to the distant calls of the morning herders, their voices thin and brittle against the biting wind. The air carried the scent of damp earth and burning wood, a reminder that the world outside was alive and restless. The village stirred with a quiet unease, the kind that settles in the bones before a storm.

Today, words would wield more power than swords.

Today, fates would be sealed.