The crackle of the bonfire licked the air with warmth, casting deep orange hues across the broken clearing of the orc camp. Logs and stones formed a loose circle where warriors—grimy, scarred, and thick with muscle—sat gnawing on fresh kills. The scent of roasting boar filled the air, smoky and fat-heavy, clinging to every breath.
Ka'ra sat cross-legged atop a large flat stone, a thick slab of boar meat resting in one hand, her other hand slowly caressing her sore leg wrapped in sinew cloth. Her sharp, copper-toned eyes burned beneath her frown, lips tugged down as her ears twitched in irritation.
"You don't look pleased, Warchief," said Grokk, a younger orc with a twisted tusk and reverent gaze. "Is it the meat?"
"It's not the meat," Ka'ra said, chewing deliberately. "It's what you just told me."
Grokk hesitated. Around him, a few orcs shifted uneasily. None liked to carry bad news to Ka'ra—even fewer dared to speak ill of Thromgar's blood.
