As the gates of Drakharoth Enclave closed behind them with a low creak, Razor and Elder Greenheart stood in silence for a moment, taking in the sight before them. The battle had ended, the bloodshed momentarily ceased, but the scars of war lingered across the enclave. The wounded were scattered across the ground, many lying on makeshift beds, while others sat hunched against the walls, nursing injuries both physical and emotional.
Drakharoth's people, despite their grim circumstances, moved with purpose. Groups of healers, dressed in worn but functional garb, worked tirelessly to tend to the injured. Citizens, young and old, passed water and supplies to the healers, their faces marked by exhaustion but also determination. The sense of unity was palpable, a bond of survival that ran through the very air of the Enclave.
Razor narrowed his eyes, observing the scene with a mixture of curiosity and something almost resembling respect. "They've suffered too, haven't they?" he muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a trace of begrudging admiration. "But they stand strong, even after all of this."
Elder Greenheart, leaning slightly on his gnarled staff, nodded solemnly. His faded green scales caught the dim light of the enclave's torches, and his yellow eyes, though slightly clouded with age, sparkled with the depth of his understanding.
"Yes," Greenheart replied, his voice soft yet filled with the weight of wisdom. "There is strength in them, a strength born not just of battle but of community. They care for one another. It is... remarkable."
Razor, fierce and impatient by nature, found himself unexpectedly drawn to this observation. He had expected to find chaos, disorder, perhaps even a fractured people after such a brutal fight. But instead, he saw something else—resilience. As he watched a young woman tend to a warrior's wounds, pressing her hand gently to his forehead as she whispered words of comfort, Razor's heart stirred with something unfamiliar.
He turned to Greenheart, his voice low. "They remind me of our people before the attack. Before we lost everything."
Greenheart looked at him, his gaze filled with the calm and understanding that came from centuries of guiding his people. "It is in such moments, Razor, that we must remember who we are. And what we fight for."
Razor's eyes narrowed as the memories of their ravaged settlement flooded back. The cries of the children, the flames engulfing their homes, the brutality of the human forces that had descended upon them. His fists clenched involuntarily, his claws digging into his palms. "I haven't forgotten, Elder. I haven't forgotten a single thing."
Before Greenheart could respond, a messenger approached them, his footsteps light but urgent. The young man's face was lined with stress, though he carried himself with an air of responsibility that suggested he was used to such dire situations.
"The High Commander requests your presence," the messenger said, bowing slightly. "Noir awaits you in the council chamber, along with Orenda, Shargoth, and Elion."
Razor glanced at Greenheart, who nodded. Without another word, they followed the messenger, their steps echoing off the stone walls of the Enclave's halls. The dim lighting cast long shadows, creating an atmosphere that felt as much like a fortress as it did a sanctuary. Razor's eyes darted from side to side, ever watchful, ever cautious, while Greenheart moved with a measured pace, his staff tapping softly against the ground.
As they approached the council chamber, Razor's heart pounded harder in his chest. This meeting would determine the fate of his people. The weight of their survival pressed heavily on his shoulders. When the large, wooden doors to the chamber swung open, Razor and Greenheart stepped inside to find Noir seated at the head of the table. Orenda stood beside him, her expression calm but firm, while Shargoth loomed in the corner, his hulking frame a reminder of the raw power he possessed. Elion, ever vigilant, stood at the side, watching with calculating eyes.
The tension in the room was thick, yet it was not hostile. Razor's gaze flicked toward Noir, whose crimson eyes met his own with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. There was something about the way Noir carried himself now—an aura of darkness, power, and command that had not been there before.
"You've been through much," Noir began, his voice low but clear. "Both of our people have."
Razor inclined his head slightly. "We have. Our settlement... it was destroyed." His voice cracked, and for a moment, the fierce warrior seemed vulnerable. He clenched his fists, his sharp claws digging into his palms. "We were attacked by an army of humans. They came without warning, like a storm. They showed no mercy, killing our warriors, our elders... even our children."
Greenheart spoke next, his voice steady but filled with sorrow. "We tried to defend our home, but their numbers were overwhelming. They came with fire and steel, slaughtering without discrimination. We were forced to flee, to leave behind the swamp that has sustained our people for generations." He paused, his gaze distant as though recalling the horror of that day. "We are here now because we have no other choice. We seek refuge in the Enclave, knowing it is our only hope for survival."
Noir listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When Greenheart finished speaking, there was a long pause. The shadows in the chamber seemed to deepen, and the crackling of a distant torch was the only sound that broke the stillness.
"The swamp," Noir finally said, his tone contemplative. "It is vital to our survival as well. We cannot afford to lose it. It provides resources we desperately need, especially now, with our people wounded and our supplies low." He glanced at Orenda, who nodded in agreement.
Razor's jaw clenched. "We know the swamps better than anyone. We can help you reclaim it, but we need time. My warriors are injured, and we've lost much. But if we work together—"
Noir cut him off, his voice calm but firm. "Time is exactly what we don't have. But you are right. We cannot act recklessly. We need to gather our strength first, to heal and prepare before we strike again." He glanced at Shargoth and Elion, as if weighing their thoughts. "We have suffered casualties after the battle with Kaelthor. We cannot afford to lose more people so soon. If we rush into this, we risk losing everything."
Greenheart, his wise eyes filled with understanding, nodded slowly. "Patience is a virtue we must embrace. We cannot hope to reclaim the swamp if we are weakened, starving, or disorganized. The spirits of the land favor those who act with caution and wisdom, not haste."
Orenda stepped forward, her voice clear. "Before we can think of reclaiming the swamp, we must solve the immediate problem of starvation. Our people need food, rest, and time to recover from their wounds. If we do not address this first, we will fail in any future efforts."
Noir's gaze swept across the room, settling on Razor and Greenheart once more. "Your people know the swamps better than any of us. When the time comes, you will guide us. But first, we must prepare. Physically, mentally, and strategically."
Razor's fists clenched in frustration, but he knew Noir was right. Charging back into the swamps now would be suicide. His warriors were tired, broken, and many had barely survived the journey to the Enclave. Still, the thought of leaving their homeland in the hands of the enemy grated at him.
"How long do we wait?" Razor growled, his impatience evident.
Noir met his gaze, unblinking. "As long as it takes for us to be ready. Not a moment longer."
Greenheart placed a calming hand on Razor's shoulder, his voice soft but firm. "Razor, sometimes the most difficult battles are not fought with claws and blades but with patience and wisdom. We will reclaim what was taken from us, but we must be strong enough to succeed when the time comes."
Razor exhaled, his frustration slowly ebbing away. He knew Greenheart was right. They had no other choice but to prepare, to heal, and to grow stronger.
"Very well," Razor finally said, his voice a low rumble. "We will rest and regain our strength. But know this, Noir—when the time comes, I will be ready to spill the blood of those who took everything from us."
Noir nodded, his expression unreadable. "We will be ready."
The meeting ended, and as Razor and Greenheart left the chamber, the weight of the future hung heavy over their heads. The path ahead would not be easy, but for the first time since the fall of their settlement, there was a glimmer of hope. Together, the Enclave and the lizardfolk would rise again, stronger and more united than ever before.
As they stepped out into the Enclave, Razor glanced at Greenheart. "Do you think we can trust them?"
Greenheart's eyes, still filled with that quiet wisdom, looked toward the distant shadows. "Trust is earned, not given. But if they are willing to fight alongside us, then we must give them the chance to prove themselves."
Razor grunted, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the heart of the Enclave. "They'd better prove it soon."
And with that, they returned to their people, ready to prepare for the fight that would one day reclaim their homeland.