Time passed slowly.
The battlefield was still, blanketed in the stench of burnt soil, metallic blood, and the lingering pulse of divine energy. The sounds of war had died, replaced by soft murmurs, ragged breaths, and the occasional crackle of scorched earth cooling.
The warriors of the Wolf Tribe moved like ghosts among the fallen. Some crouched beside their comrades, tending to wounds with shaking fingers. Others sat silently with vacant expressions, the weight of survival pressing down harder than any enemy blade. A few wept quietly—low, private sobs over friends and brothers who would never stand again.
At the center of it all lay Fenrir.
