He was missing three fingers on his right hand, and the tool recoiled violently each time it struck, forcing him to grip it tight so it wouldn’t slip free. Sweat clung to his temples despite the chill in the air.
He worked beside another man in front of a house, which was a little more than a wooden foundation at this stage. Inside, a few Velmoryns labored in silence. No one had the time or strength to answer the man complaining outside.
But one woman, pulling a cart laden with water jugs and food baskets, stopped mid-step. Her brow furrowed as she fixed the man with a cold stare. Without a word, she let the cart’s handle drop, reached in, grabbed two jugs and a small basket, and carried them toward the trench.
“Would you rather struggle for food and stay helpless while our youth are taken by other tribes?” she snapped, setting the jug down hard enough to make the water slosh. The basket followed - six thick slices of smoked meat and a single piece of coarse bread. Her glare lingered for a moment longer before she stepped back, waiting for a response she knew wouldn’t come.
“Don’t mind him, Leila,” another Velmoryn said, resting his pickaxe and climbing out of the ditch. “You know how he is. Always grumbling.”
“I’m not complaining,” the three-fingered man protested, scowling. “I only question why we’re wasting all this effort digging canals when we could be doing… something more useful instead.”
“Leila, is this all the bread we are given?” the other man asked, glancing into the basket. His tone carried mild disappointment, though he made an effort to hide it.
Leila’s glare softened only slightly as she turned toward him.
“We’ve little flour left, Gerion. The Yellow Tribe brought barely enough to last till spring, and you are well aware we can’t grow more yet.” Her voice grew sharper with each word. “Why must I explain this? You take what you are given! Everyone in the tribe is working themselves to the bone; look at Rodon! It’s been barely two months since he lost a leg during the Grand Quest, Praise be to High Father, and he hasn’t taken a single day of rest! That is how real men should be!”
She spun on her heel and stomped away toward the next construction site.
“Why is she angry?” the three-fingered man asked, confused.
Gerion sighed and wiped his brow. “The new decree the Priestess announced yesterday. She’s been restless ever since.”
“What decree?”
“The one allowing children to learn the craft they’re drawn to.” Gerion’s voice lowered, his eyes following Leila’s retreating figure. “She always wished to learn potion-making, but no one in the tribe knew the art, and we couldn’t afford wasted ingredients back then.”
“I still don’t see it,” the man muttered. “That degree helps the young. What’s it to her?”
Gerion stared at him for a few moments before shaking his head slowly. “Because she’s been living with that regret her whole life, and the Priestess’s words reopened that old wound.”
He stopped speaking as his attention drifted to Huanir and another tharuun struggling down the path, both harnessed to a large red crystal that left deep grooves in the dirt as it slid.
“Teryo, where are you taking that?” Gerion called out to the old Vael, who was busy urging the two tharuuns, creatures never meant to serve as pack beasts, to move in sync.
The man stopped, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and gave the creatures a short pat, allowing them to rest.
“The Priestess asked me to move it to the center of the settlement,” he said with a slightly awkward smile.
Despite still living among the believers, Teryo remained one of the few who had not accepted my mark. If not for a few dozen newcomers from the Yellow Tribe, he would have been the only nonbeliever left. And yet, he was slowly starting to take part in everything that happened within the tribe. He even assisted Tekla during several rituals, helping prepare offerings.
I believed his hesitation came from fear. In this world, where mortals could sense the will of their gods, the idea of being denied was terrifying. Teryo likely believed that if he tried to pray and I refused him, he would have no place left in the settlement. Rejection would mean exile from both faith and kin. Remaining neutral, half within the community and half outside of it, must have seemed far safer.
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And so he lingered in this strange in-between state, helping with temple work and joining the tribe’s efforts, yet never making a decision to bear the crimson markings. Those colorless lines had become his silent burden, standing out against the faces of the faithful like a reminder that even in a united tribe, not all hearts belonged to the same god.
“But why does the Priestess need it?” Gerion asked, reaching into the basket. His hand hovered over the slices of boiled meat for a moment before he picked one, the largest, and took a bite as he watched Teryo return to his work.
“She never told me,” Teryo replied, gently scratching Huanir behind the ear. The tharuun went quiet, rumbling with satisfaction before growling at its partner to start moving again.
Teryo wasn’t far from the center of the tribe, though calling it a “tribe” hardly fit anymore. The fragile shacks that once sheltered the Velmoryns had been replaced by sturdy and large wooden houses with stone foundations. The old communal kitchen and dining hall had been repurposed into storage buildings, filled with tools, dried meat, and many other things. With the population nearing several thousand, even the thought of sharing a single meal together had become impossible.
So far, only the Yellow Tribe had managed to fully migrate. The Crimson Tribe’s low numbers made large-scale construction difficult, and even with help from the dozen or so Yellow Tribe’s volunteers, many of whom slept in the open just to speed the process, it had taken months to prepare proper housing for their nearly two thousand members.
The Green and Brown Tribes remained in their own settlements, waiting for the combined strength of the Crimson and Yellow Tribes to finish building homes for them.
The Silver Tribe, however, had been forced to split. After Shelya’s death and the loss of her elites, they were left defenseless - fearful not only of the beasts that roamed the forest but of Akrion as well.
Once they heard what Akrion had done to those who defied him, the Silver Tribe abandoned what pride they had left and split into three groups. The larger ones sought refuge with the Brown and Green Tribes, while a smaller faction chose a harsher path. They left everything behind and joined my settlement right away.
Their desire for a new beginning outweighed their fear, and so their homes were the first to be built by Gerion and the others.
Yet, the new houses were only a small part of the transformation taking place.
“I still don’t understand why you gave up the spot that should’ve been yours,” Mirion said with a grin, raising his hand to slap Avenor’s back but stopping mid-swing. After raising his Rank, Avenor’s strength was far superior to Mirion’s.
“Just because the idea of forming a stationed unit of trained warriors was mine doesn’t mean I was the best choice to lead them,” Avenor replied and took a long gulp from his mug of elyan wine. He grimaced as the liquid burned down his throat. “I’ll never get used to this smell and aftertaste.”
“You’d better hide that from Rodon,” Mirion muttered, half amused, half regretful. “Ever since he lost his leg, he’s been talking nonstop about becoming the best brewer in the tribe.”
“Tribe, huh?” Avenor chuckled, staring into his mug. “Isn’t it a little too big to call it a tribe anymore?”
Mirion shrugged and said nothing, refilling his cup and downing half of it before speaking again.
“Avenor,” he began, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You can ignore the question if you want, but why do you keep avoiding getting tied down in our tribe? Sorry, not in the tribe, in our… erm… I’m too drunk for this.”
Mirion grinned at his own words, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was studying Avenor closely.
“I wouldn’t have answered that a few months ago, before the… what do they call it? The Grand Quest, right?” Avenor laughed and raised his mug, draining it in one long pull. His ears were bright red now, his eyes shining with the hazy gleam of drink. “I don’t feel like I belong here. I might look like a Velmoryn, but I’m half elf, too. My memories from my past life… I mean, before Roy found me, everything before that feels like a dream that doesn’t belong to this world.”
Mirion said nothing, just took another slow sip, his eyes fixed on the rippling surface of his drink as he waited for Avenor to continue.
“You know, it would’ve been unimaginable for me to risk my life for people I barely knew,” Avenor said after a pause. “But for some reason, in that damned cavern, I did it.” He waited for Mirion to refill his mug, then took another sip. “What was I saying? Oh, right, the fight with that creature…”
“No,” Mirion interrupted. “You were telling me why you fear getting close to our kin.” Then he fell silent again.
“Erm, I don’t know what to tell you.” Avenor grinned, the smile a little uneven now. “It’s not that I don’t want to belong. I just don’t think you’ll ever see me as one of you. Not for who I am.”
“Avenor,” Mirion said quietly, “everyone here respects you. Even the children say they want to be as strong and brave as you are. Doesn’t that tell you you’re already one of us?”
Avenor didn’t answer. His head hung low for a moment before he straightened, bringing the mug to his lips and draining what little remained, though most of it spilled down his chin.
“I’ll change that,” he said, his voice slurred but determined. “I’ll work hard to become one of you. And I’ll make that bastard do the same.” He laughed, though it came out half as a cough. “He’s changed, Mirion. I never thought he would, hell, I never thought I would, but we both did. I think he even cares for me, and if that’s true, I’ll prove to him that I can be loyal!”
He tried to stand, swaying as his legs betrayed him. For a moment, he managed to hold himself upright, his back straight though his head hung heavy.
“You hear me, Ver…”
His words cut short as a dry branch snapped loose from the tree above, falling squarely on his head and knocking him out cold.
The next chapter on Friday
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