Time had passed. The storm never came, but the sky wept slowly.
The macabre spectacle was over.
At last, Dylan decided to leave his perch. He leapt from the tree without a word, boots slipping on the wet grass. The others followed. One to the east, the other to the west.
Each descended at their own pace, but all eventually converged.
A human triangle slowly closing in on the charnel pit.
At the center, the remains of a massacre. Twisted bodies. Blackened blood. Flesh half-torn. And in the midst of it all… the grey orc. Still upright. On his knees. His gaze lost somewhere between the earth and the dead.
While the two camps had torn each other apart in a brutal battle, the three watchers hadn't lifted a finger.
No better than scavengers.
Or parasites.
They had waited. Bided their time. Now, in the heavy silence, they finally appeared — like creeping shadows from the woods.
