Night settled over the camp like a heavy shroud, the moon filtering through the trees in pale slivers. The forest was unusually quiet; even the nocturnal beasts sensed the tension hanging over the Nue'roka settlement. Warriors sharpened blades under dim lantern light. Scouts whispered strategies over drawn maps. Elders offered low chants to the ancestral spirits, hoping the night would bear witness to victory instead of another tragedy.
In the center of it all stood Jorghan.
He leaned against a massive root-arch, arms crossed, watching the elves move through the shadows. They prepared efficiently—silent, deadly, disciplined—but their fear was palpable beneath it all. Their people had been taken. Their lands burned. Their morale shaken. Every elf here carried that weight.
Jorghan's crimson eyes flickered with mild annoyance. "If they keep pacing like that," he muttered, "the grass will be worn down to mud."
