Just then, Zephyra collapsed. The butterflies vanished, and the silver light died out of her hair. Two priestesses rushed forward to catch her, leading her away. She looked drained, her face pale and aged.
Sol was worried looking at her being carried away. But Kira told him it was gonna be okay.
Afterwards, instead of a lingering sadness, the atmosphere in the square shifted. The drums grew faster, more energetic. The mourning was over; the "wishing well" had begun. The warriors began to stomp their feet in time with the drums, their phantoms flickering with a fierce, defiant light. Soon, the whole tribe, kids, women, elders and even the injured ones joined the rhythm, doing whatever they could.
It was a primitive, visceral survival mechanism. They couldn't afford to mourn for long. Tomorrow, the sun would rise, and the Marauders would still be hungry.
