Only thirteen races remained on the planet.
The other four were gone.
Extinct. Erased.
Efsa no longer paid close attention to the wars.
He had long stopped counting the battles, the fallen, the shifting tides of power.
Yet, no matter how much he ignored them, the news still found its way to him.
Another city burned. Another species was wiped out. Another faction rose, only to crumble days later.
And still, the fighting did not end.
It didn't matter to him.
His days passed the same way they always did.
Tending to the land. Watching the seasons shift. And, more than anything else—waiting for dinner.
That evening, as they sat at the table, Silk spoke absentmindedly between bites of food.
"I wonder if the fighting will ever end."
Efsa, who had been staring at his plate, barely lifted his eyes as he responded.
"Fights never end," he said flatly, "unless someone sacrifices themselves."
Silk frowned, her spoon pausing midair.
