The fire crackled and danced, its embers floating up into the dark, starlit sky as if carrying their newfound hope into the heavens.
Plates of food were passed around, though the portions were meager; they barely noticed, too busy recounting the details of the day's hunt.
Each voice was louder than the last, each retelling more embellished, as if by making their progress sound grander, they could convince themselves they were closer to victory than they truly were.
One soldier, a younger man with a bandaged arm, stood up, raising his drink—a watered-down mead they had salvaged from their supplies—and called out to the group, his voice trembling with excitement.
"We made it retreat! It ran from us! Did you see how it flinched when Tessa's arrow exploded? We're wearing it down. We can do this!"
His words were met with a roar of approval, the sound echoing through the camp and into the surrounding forest.
