He touched the rim of the projection, and the image shifted. It didn't show banners or soldiers, no grand histories carved in flame or steel.
What rose instead was simple: a line of cattle moving slowly across a plain, heads lowered, a single figure walking behind them with a staff in hand.
He tapped once, and the line curved, almost forming a circle, but it left a gap. Circles in the void never closed unless they wanted to, and this one chose not to.
"We are not a clan born to take," he said quietly. His voice wasn't meant to impress; it was plain, deliberate, steady.
"We are born to stand. Our people count their days by roofs that do not leak, meals that do not fail, and mornings that arrive without disaster.
We are not famous for soldiers and have never asked to be. What we are known for is endurance—quiet, steady, sometimes ignored, but never absent.
