Gilshun had no answers for the elder's questions.
"To be alive is better than to be dead. To have a sliver of hope is better than to have none." The old man's tone softened, turning persuasive. "Perhaps one day, when the Cult of Four has rotted from within, we'll have a chance to return to our ancestral lands."
Gilshun stared into the distance, silent. He had his own ideas, a fire in his belly that screamed for a fight. War, he believed, would forge his people into something stronger. But he couldn't deny the truth in his ancestor's words. When the survival of their entire race was on the line, everything else had to take a backseat.
The front line was a canvas ripped straight from the deepest circle of Hell.
