The roar of the massive bonfire crackled against the night sky, sending sparks dancing like tiny orange stars toward the moon.
Around us, the West Way was alive with a different kind of noise—not the clash that came with war, but the low, rhythmic hum of a tribe settling into safety.
The sheep looked ridiculous, honestly. A sea of pink, shorn bodies huddled around the heat, wrapped in whatever spare hides and blankets we could scrounge up from the kingdom.
They looked like they had just been through hell, but they were alive. And they were eating.
Carrots, lettuce, cucumbers, and cabbage they could find from their wrecked village's storehouse that strangely seemed intact after all that chaos.
I guess since the hyenas and rugged wolves couldn't exactly eat vegetables, they didn't even approach the storehouse.
