Last Goodbyes

Inside the tent, the air was thick with unspoken words. The only sounds were the distant crackling of torches outside and the faint rustling of the fabric walls as the wind brushed against them.

Varaku sat cross-legged near the fire pit, his calloused hands resting on his knees. His face, worn by years of hardship and battle, was unreadable, though his jaw was set tight. Across from him, Torghan sat in silence, his posture rigid, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery on his sleeve. The flickering firelight cast shifting shadows across their faces, highlighting the sharp lines of father and son—so alike, yet now standing on opposite paths.

Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say that the other did not already know.

Yet something they would have to say.