## **Chapter 19: Echoes of Silence**
Garak stood at the edge of the camp, the evening sun casting long shadows over the land. Days had passed since he sent the emissaries to the surrounding tribes, each with a message of alliance—a call for unity against the emerging threat of the Xytherians. The urgency of the situation gnawed at him, but now a new worry began to creep into his thoughts.
He could see the returning emissaries in the distance, but the number was not what it should have been. A quick count revealed what he feared—some were missing. He exchanged glances with one of the elders standing beside him, the old Kralin's face tightening with concern.
"They should have all returned by now," the elder muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Garak nodded grimly. "Something's gone wrong."
The camp was alive with movement. Kralin children played along the tents, oblivious to the tension that hung thick in the air. Warriors sharpened their primitive spears, and the soft hum of conversations filled the space. Yet, despite the semblance of normalcy, Garak couldn't shake the dread building in his chest. The missing emissaries could mean many things—but in times like these, it usually meant the worst.
The returning group approached. Each emissary carried the weariness of travel, but one look at their faces told Garak more than words ever could. There was a mix of relief and fear in their eyes, a silent understanding that not all had gone well.
"We must hear their reports," Garak said, beckoning the group toward the central tent where the remaining elders, the shaman, and he had gathered. He had hoped for more positive news, but a knot of anxiety tightened within him.
Once inside, the emissaries wasted no time in recounting their journeys. The first to speak was Loma, a seasoned hunter and trusted emissary.
"The tribe of Varan has agreed to ally with us," Loma said, his voice steady but shadowed with exhaustion. "They've encountered the Xytherians themselves. A hunting party was ambushed a few days ago—nearly wiped out. They believe in the threat, and they've pledged their support."
There were murmurs of approval from the council, but Garak remained silent. He nodded at Loma before turning to the next emissary.
"The Dhon clan… they refused," said Darek, another emissary, his head lowered. "They think we're lying. They've seen no sign of the creatures and believe this is some sort of ploy to take their resources. They chased me out of their camp."
Garak grimaced. He had expected some resistance, but outright refusal still stung. He knew what was coming next—the question of the missing emissaries, the fate of those who had not returned. His stomach turned at the thought.
Then, suddenly, the flaps of the tent burst open, and the figure of a bloodied emissary stumbled inside. All eyes turned as Garak shot to his feet, rushing to the injured Kralin's side.
"Help him!" Garak ordered, his voice filled with urgency. The shaman rushed over, guiding the emissary to a seat as the elders moved closer, the air thick with tension.
The bruised and battered emissary groaned in pain, his scaled skin bruised and marred with fresh wounds. As the shaman began treating his injuries, the emissary managed to speak.
"I… I went to the Tolur tribe," he gasped, his breath ragged. "They didn't even listen. As soon as I mentioned the Xytherians, they attacked. They were going to kill me—had to run, had to fight my way out…"
His voice trailed off as he winced, the pain evident in every breath he took. The shaman continued working, applying healing herbs to the worst of the wounds, but the words hung heavy in the air.
The Tolur tribe hadn't just refused—they had tried to kill one of their own. The room fell into a tense silence as everyone processed the gravity of the situation.
Garak's face darkened. The emissaries were sent in peace, with a message of hope for survival through unity, but some of their neighbors had reacted with hostility. He knew that fear of the unknown could drive beings to madness, but this… this was something far worse.
Finally, Garak spoke, his voice low and measured, hiding the fury boiling beneath the surface. "We sent them as envoys of peace. And they were met with violence."
The elder beside him nodded gravely. "This changes things, Garak. If tribes like Tolur won't even listen, then they're a danger to all of us."
"They see us as a threat, not the Xytherians," Garak replied, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. "But we can't afford more enemies. We're not in a position to fight them all."
Another emissary, an older Kralin named Hork, shifted in his seat. "What do we do about the missing emissaries?" he asked softly. His question sent a ripple of discomfort through the room. The fate of the missing weighed heavily on them all.
Garak closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply before answering. "We wait a little longer, but I fear the worst."
The shaman, finished with his healing work, stepped away from the injured emissary. The warrior slumped back, breathing more steadily now but still weak.
The room settled into a thick, oppressive silence. Each elder sat with their own thoughts, the gravity of the situation sinking deeper into their bones. They had survived the Xytherians' initial attacks, but now they faced an even greater challenge—trying to unite a fractured world that didn't believe in the threat until it was too late.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on Garak's shoulders as he looked around the room. Faces etched with anger, sorrow, and uncertainty surrounded him, but no words were exchanged. The loss of their emissaries, the rejection of their calls for help—it all culminated in this moment of quiet reflection.
In the distance, the camp continued its daily routines, unaware of the turmoil brewing inside the council's tent. The Kralin people carried on, but their leaders knew the truth. The world was changing, and they were not ready.
The silence stretched on, unbroken. There would be no decisions made tonight, no plans drawn, no strategies discussed. The weight of the missing emissaries and the violence they had encountered spoke louder than any words could.
Garak's eyes narrowed as he stared at the dirt floor. He felt the familiar tug of responsibility pulling him down, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the hardest part of their fight had only just begun.
But for now, they would sit in silence, absorbing the blows fate had dealt them, preparing for the moment when they would need to rise once more.
And in the quiet of the tent, with only the crackling of a distant fire for company, they understood—war had already begun, not just with the Xytherians, but with their own people.
The echoes of silence lingered, heavy and unrelenting.
---