“The traitor is dead," Grolfir announced; turning from the corpse to walk up to the high table and address the room. "The plot of the enemy has been uncovered and we must all take a lesson from his designs. I know that past wars have Left open wounds in our relationship with humankind. I know that many of you experienced Losses you still feel to this day. I do not make Light of them. Knowing all of that, we must remember one thing: The enemy fears the alliance of humans and orcs.

Though I know many of you kindle your anger toward humanity even still,

I also know that the hatred for this vile scum burns far hotter in your hearts." He pointed toward the fallen corpse of Wren, and his words got a murmur of assent throughout the hall. "The enemy wants our alliance broken, so that we will pull our forces from the great war and leave the humans to stand alone. They think us cowards to be so easily coaxed into retreat!"

The use of the c-word was the gravest insult an orc could receive. At the mere suggestion, the murmuring raised up into a war-cry for the blood of the enemy.

“Because of their treachery, I feel that we should give the scum a reckoning. My blood is hot, and I crave battle. I shall personally lead a thousand war packs to the north to reinforce our alliance with the humans. In the years to come, after we cast them back to the pits they came from, they will never forget what this day cost them!"

The speech Grolfir gave was met with almost unanimous approval by the elder council. By the end of the day, an agreement had been made to send somewhere in the region of 7000 veteran orcs to the northern war.

This number included every single member of Wren's former supporters, and most of the influential orcs bearing anti-human sentiment. They had been deceived by the enemy, after all. A campaign to take the fight to the foe would cleanse their honour, and Grolfir made sure he had enough of his own support to keep them in check if things turned ugly.

Gregory quietly returned to his camp after the meeting was over, and felt oddly restored by the experience. After a brief examination,

Valise agreed that his spiritual recovery seemed to have been enhanced since she'd looked over him that morning. Under better circumstances, he might have taken her to her tent and explored other avenues of feeling better with her. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the mood for such distractions. Though he might have taken a Leap on the road to full recovery, Janette was still laid on their bed and had been unable to properly get up since the attack. He had also asked them to wait for the funerals of Torren and Lydia until he could stand upright. Valise had been able to preserve the bodies, and he had stopped in the tent that had been raised to keep them before making his way to the great hall that day.

Even after weeks, they only looked as if they were sleeping side by side upon two separate tables. Their bodies had been draped with a thin, white veil and garbed in matching white clothing. He'd asked to be alone with them for a few moments, and had walked to the centre of the tent to stand between them. A strange anxiety built within him, as he felt he was supposed to do something but didn't quite know what. Did he want to say goodbye? No. That would just feel silly. There was nothing left to say goodbye to.

Whilst wearing the ring he had seen the bodies, and their spirits had long since departed back into the great streams of energy that flowed beneath the world. All that was left were empty shells.

He didn't know what to do.

Then he looked over to Torren and saw the big man's face settled into a serene expression of endless sleep. The absence of Life made Gregory's brain attempt to fix it, and flushed him with memories of the blacksmith. He remembered the way he'd almost knocked himself out with a buckler the first time they had spoken. The way he had looked at

Talina in a way that was deeply reminiscent of how Gregory had long felt for Janette. How he had often presented his immaculately crafted weapons to their new owners with unnecessary nerves. Everything that

Gregory remembered him as, and everything he could have been.

Grief hit him hard in the gut, and he made the mistake of looking away only for his gaze to fall directly upon Lydia. Seeing her features so still just felt wrong. She always looked at him with such an expressive face, and he always felt better for looking at her. She'd always had a knowing smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and the promise of some naughty mischief glowing in her eyes. That spark of life had taken an attractive woman and made her beautiful. Now it was gone, and she was still.

He didn't want to look at them anymore, so he'd buried his face in his hands and fell to his knees where he'd wept quietly for a time. Then the wave of sadness had dulled into a continuous, distant thud in his chest, and he wiped his eyes before he rose to his feet and departed the tent.

Frun's body had already been burned alongside the funeral pyres of the other orcs who had fallen in battle. Gregory had not regained consciousness in time to attend.

The Dragons had been dismissed for the night, but they all followed him home regardless. Algra was naturally at his side, but the others also wished to offer their respects to the fallen humans. They had all fought with Torren's weapons, and respected his role in finally helping them get out of the proving grounds. Lydia had become friends with

Frelki and Ulla in the time they had spent hanging around Gregory's camp. It had been difficult to know Lydia for more than a few minutes and not enjoy her company.