Wives and mothers broke through the edges of the column to throw their arms around husbands and sons.
Fathers gripped the shoulders of their returning children with trembling hands. Some simply fell to their knees in the dirt, overcome, pressing their foreheads to the ground in gratitude to the ancestors.
The bound Coalition captives were led onward under heavy guard toward the lower prison, their presence almost forgotten amid the overwhelming tide of emotion.
No one spared them more than a passing glance of contempt or grim satisfaction. All attention belonged to the living… to the warriors who had gone out against impossible odds and returned victorious.
Through it all, Sol walked in silence near the center of the column, the Dreadwing Blade resting against his back. The roar of the tribe washed over him, as he reveled it all silently.
