The silence following the ritual was thick and heavy, pressing down on the group as they stood in the cold shadow of the mountain.
The soldiers shifted uneasily, eyes flickering between each other, waiting, unsure.
Lyerin stood at the center of the blood-stained earth, his face calm and impassive as if the blood sacrifice was nothing more than a simple task completed.
He clasped his hands behind his back, casting his gaze toward the towering peak, seemingly lost in thought.
At last, Lucas, a young lieutenant from the military contingent, cleared his throat.
It was a tentative sound, barely audible above the rustling wind that whispered around them, carrying the echoes of Lyerin's chant into the distance.
Stepping forward, Lucas straightened, his hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of his sword as he regarded the chieftain with a mixture of awe and unease.
