Suddenly, the Warchief lowered his gaze.
For the first time since he stepped out of the dimensional crack, his eyes were no longer locked on Clay, no longer filled with rage directed outward, but instead drawn to the ground before him where fragments of flesh, torn cloth, and scattered remains still lay across the broken earth.
Bufolk.
What remained of him.
For a long moment, the massive man did not move.
Then his shoulders trembled.
A sound came out.
Low at first.
Barely audible.
Then it grew.
A deep, cracking sound that tore out of his throat as if something inside him had snapped.
"My… son…"
His voice shook violently.
"My son… my son… Bufolk…"
He dropped to one knee, his massive fingers digging into the ground as he stared at the scattered remains, his breathing becoming uneven, each inhale heavy, each exhale filled with pain that refused to stay hidden.
"You… you foolish boy…"
His voice cracked again.
