The towering gates of the tribe groaned as they opened, revealing a wide expanse bustling with activity. Within, men and women moved with purpose, their faces hardened by years of survival in this harsh world. The soldiers were clad in mismatched armor, some pieces scavenged, others crafted from local materials. Their weapons were sharp and gleamed ominously under the pale light. The air was thick with the smell of burning wood, sweat, and iron, a testament to the makeshift community's resilience.
Lyerin stood tall, his golden eyes gleaming as he surveyed the scene. Behind him, Donovan, Theran, Miriam, Mikhail, and the Younger Woman stumbled forward, their bodies battered and bruised, their faces hollowed by exhaustion and fear. Each step they took was an agonizing effort, and every scrape of their boots against the rough ground seemed to echo louder than it should have.
