Sol walked down the main dirt thoroughfare of the inner settlement, keeping his hand resting casually on the heavy hilt of the Dreadwing Blade.
The harsh morning sun beat down on the Great Heartwood, baking the mud and the blood into a foul-smelling crust. Everywhere he looked, the Veynar tribe was moving in a frantic, organized rush. Repair crews hoisted massive logs on their shoulders with thick hemp ropes. Women carried bundles of bandages and buckets of clean water toward the triage tents. The sharp, rhythmic crack of hammers hitting wooden pegs echoed off the tall longhouses.
But the moment Sol stepped into view, the rhythm seems to stutter.
A group of heavily scarred, veteran Vanguard spearmen… the same guys who had sneered at him a week ago and didn't acknowledge him much… stopped dead in their tracks. They lowered the heavy timber beam they were carrying, stood up perfectly straight, and slammed their right fists over their hearts in a crisp, unified salute.
