The first attack came at dawn.
Jack was jolted awake by the sharp cries of the sentries. He scrambled from his shelter, heart pounding as he grabbed his spear and rushed to the defensive perimeter. The Gorr'ka had come, their war cries echoing across the valley as they surged toward the camp. The barricades of sharpened stakes and fallen trees held them at bay for a moment, but the sheer force of their charge began to break through the defenses.
The air was filled with the sound of clashing weapons, the guttural grunts of warriors locked in battle. Jack fought alongside the others, his muscles burning with effort as he thrust his spear at an oncoming attacker. The man dodged, swinging a crude club at Jack's head. He barely managed to duck, feeling the wind of the strike pass inches from his skull. Instinct took over, and Jack drove the butt of his spear into the man's stomach, sending him sprawling into the snow.
Torrek fought beside him, his movements swift and brutal, cutting down enemy after enemy. But the Gorr'ka were relentless, and despite their defenses, they were forcing their way into the heart of the camp.
Then, Garrak gave the order. The tribe fell back toward the inner circle of shelters, where the elders and children had been hidden away. Jack followed, breathless, as they regrouped for a final stand. Garrak, bleeding from a gash across his forehead, raised his spear high and let out a roar that rallied the warriors. They could not afford to lose this fight.
Jack's heart pounded in his chest as he realized what was happening. This was no longer just about survival—this was a defining moment for him. He was no longer an outsider; he was fighting for his home.
The battle raged on until the sun crested the horizon, its golden light painting the bloodied snow. Finally, the Gorr'ka began to retreat. Those who were left standing dragged their wounded away, snarling threats as they disappeared into the wilderness.
The tribe had won.
Jack stood among the weary survivors, panting, his body aching from the struggle. As he looked around, he saw the toll the battle had taken. Some of their own had fallen, and their loss weighed heavily on everyone.
Later that night, a great fire was lit in the center of the village. The tribe gathered around, mourning their dead and honoring their bravery. Then, in a moment Jack would never forget, Garrak approached him, holding a sharp flint blade.
"You have proven yourself," Garrak said in a solemn tone. "You are no longer an outsider. You are one of us."
Jack watched as Garrak pressed the blade against his shoulder, cutting a shallow line—his warrior's mark. A sign of belonging. A sign of family.
The pain was brief, but the meaning was lasting. Jack clenched his jaw, nodding in silent acceptance. He had finally found his place.