The heavy wooden gates of the Veynar closed with a final, echoing thud, sealing the one hundred and eighty returning warriors inside the relative safety of the central rings.
The initial burst of wild celebration… the weeping mothers, the shouting scouts, unrefined shock of a bloodless double raid… gradually settled into a tense, heavy quiet.
The sun was climbing toward the center sky, burning away the last of the blue morning mist, , casting bright, harsh light through the ironwood canopy, but the shadows on the ground felt longer, heavier.
In the southern corner of the primary clearing, a massive pre-war feast had been thrown together with frantic desperation. In the Orrath, a feast before a grand clash wasn't a celebration of victory… it was a final acknowledgment of life.
There was no grand ceremony or traditional dancing; it was a gritty, urgent gathering meant to fuel the bodies that would be holding the lines by nightfall.
