But Thorne didnât address Sol. He didnât even acknowledge his arrival beyond that first look. He turned back to Veylara and continued his speech as if Sol were just a piece of furniture.
"We donât have the luxury of pride, Warchief!" Thorneâs voice was smooth, like a salesman trying to convince you that your house was on fire. "According to our scouts," Thorne continued, his voice dropping into a grave, urgent tone. "The Marauders are planning another massive attack before the full moon. Theyâve joined with the Zerith. We are outnumbered ten to one! We are bleeding warriors every day. Korgâs fall has dealt a blow to our morale that we cannot ignore."
Veylara didnât say anything. She looked like she wasnât even listening, her stormy eyes fixed on the rough marking of the Orrath Forest laid out on the table. Zephyra was the same, her eyes closed in a trance, blowing smoke rings that hovered in the air like tiny, ghostly halos.
Thorne pressed, stepping closer to the table. "The Zharun Tribe has sent another envoy. They have heard of our loss and have generously retracted the demand for your marriage. They realize that was... a bit forward. They are being absolutely reasonable!
They assure us that if we merge, the Veynar will maintain our sovereignty. We will be equal partners. They only want to unite our bloodlines to face the Marauders together. All they ask is that we unite our banners and share our hunting grounds. They have
two
Earth-Blood Kings, Veylara. Think of the safety! Think of the children!"
Sol found a spot near the back wall, Miya hovering beside him, her bubbly demeanor finally suppressed by the gravity of the room.
"Equal sovereignty?"
The shout came from the opposite side of the hall. This was
Elder Harkan
, a veteran warrior. He was tall, with a shock of red hair and a scarred chest, his phantom a massive, four-armed Great Ape that pounded its spectral fists against the floor.
"Thorne, youâve spent too much time sniffing the Zharunâs incense. They are bloodthirsty savages!"
Harkan
roared, his voice like gravel in a blender. "How can you believe a single word they say? Youâd have to be insane to trust a tribe that has already âannexedâ two other human clans. Have you seen those clans lately, Thorne? No, because they donât exist anymore! Their men are used as cannon fodder and their women are treated like cattle! To believe their word is to invite a snake into your bed and hope it only bites your enemies!"
Harkan
slammed his fist on the table. "Veynar has always been proud. We have overcome countless tribulations without bowing our heads. We will not bow our heads now. I would rather die fighting a Marauder than live as a dog on a Zharun leash!"
"We will continue to fight for our survival, even if it means dying in the roots of this tree!"
Sol felt a surge of respect for Harkan. The manâs speech was raw, impassioned, and held the true spirit of the warriors Sol had seen on the ridge. Several other elders and young warriors nodded in agreement, their own phantoms flickering with defiant light.
"Harkan is right," another female elder added, her hawk phantom shrieking. "The Heartwood and our blood have kept us... yet pride alone will not feed the hungry; sometimes survival demands hands that are willing to do what the heart cannot."
Thorne didnât flinch. He turned to Harkan, his expression shifting into one of pity. "You are the one who has gone insane, Haren. Survival is the most important law of the forest. "You talk about dying in battle... are you going to be the one to tell the widows that their husbands died because you were too âproudâ to accept help? Are you going to be responsible for the end of our bloodline?"
Thorne looked around the room, his eyes landing on the younger warriors. "We cannot let our people die in vain just to satisfy your archaic sense of âpride.â When the Marauders break the inner gates and start eating our infants, will you be the one to tell the mothers that at least we didnât bow our heads?"
Thorne stepped closer to Harkan, his voice dropping into a low, deadly whisper. "If a temporary merger means the survival of our blood, what is the harm in a little diplomacy? Who knows? After we defeat the Marauders together, perhaps weâll find a way to separate again. But you canât separate if youâre all rotting in the dirt."
The hall went silent.
Sol watched from the sidelines, his modern mind analyzing the debate. He had thought Thorne was just a prick... and he clearly was... but he hadnât expected his reasoning to be so grounded in the cold, hard logic of survival.
It was the classic "Peace at any cost" versus "Freedom or death" argument. He was using the ultimate shield: the safety of the weak. It was the kind of argument that was almost impossible to beat because it painted the opposition as heartless. On Earth, Thorne would have been a high-ranking bureaucrat selling out a country to save its infrastructure.
"Survival under others is not survival," Harkan spat, his Ape phantom letting out a low, vibrating growl. "Itâs a slow extinction."
Thorne ignored him and turned his gaze toward the back of the room. His eyes locked onto Sol. A long, uncomfortably silent look passed between them. Thorneâs gaze was calculating, stripping Sol down to his marrow, looking for a weakness. Korash, sitting beside his father, narrowed his eyes, his Boar phantom snorting a warning.
"And what of our âDivineâ guest?" Thorne asked, his tone dripping with mock reverence. "He arrives in a flash of light just as the sky turns red. A âLost Oneâ with no totem and a fancy tunic. Tell me, Warchief, is this boy our salvation? Or is he just another mouth to feed while we wait for the Zharun to save us?"
Veylara finally spoke. Her voice was like a cool breeze that instantly dropped the roomâs temperature. "Sol is a guest. His presence is a matter for the Shamanic Grove, not the Council table. We Veynar always treat our guests with respect. Thorne."
Thorne gave a sarcastic, shallow bow. "Of course, Warchief. My apologies. I forgot that we prioritize âmysteriesâ over military reality."
Sol didnât say anything, as it wasnâ t his place as an outsider to meddle in matters of survival.
Thorne backed down, his Vulture phantom spreading its wings to their full, oppressive span. "The Zharun envoy will return at the high moon tomorrow. They expect an answer. If we refuse... well, the forest is a very dangerous place for a tribe with no allies."
"Enough," Veylara finally spoke. Her voice didnât rise, but the Tigress on her shoulders let out a low, vibrating growl that silenced the room instantly.
He didnât know when Kira had walked over to his side, her expression unreadable. "You heard it all, didnât you?"
"I heard a man trying to sell a house while the roof is on fire," Sol replied.
Kira let out a hollow laugh. "Elder Thorne is a vulture. Heâs always been one. But heâs right about one thing... Korgâs death has changed everything. The warriors are scared, Sol. Theyâve seen the âunbeatableâ fall. Theyâre looking for a sign."
She looked at him, her stormy eyes searching his. "The Rite of the First Soul. Itâs in two days. But my mother... she wants you to attempt an early awakening. Today."
"Today?" Sol asked, his heart skipping a beat.
As the silence finally settled, Veykara turned her stormy gaze to Sol. "Thatâs it. The council will continue this discussion later.
Sol walked into the center of the hall, the eyes of the elders burning into his back.
Thorne looked at him, a sneer curling his lip. "Ah, the âDivine One.â Letâs see if he can even survive the spark of a Sun Core. If he fails, perhaps we can offer him to the Zharun as a jester. They love pretty things in dresses."
Korash chuckled, but Sol didnât even look at them. He stood before Veylara and Zephyra, his face a mask of calm.
"High Shaman," Veylara said, gesturing to Zephyra. "Proceed with the guidance. Letâs see if the âLost Oneâ has a soul worth taming."
High Shaman Zephyra drifted forward, her spirit-smoke curling around her like a living shawl. She blew a long, thin stream of silver vapor toward Sol.
"The forest is restless, lately," Zephyra whispered, her voice melodic and haunting. "The Singing Moss is changing its tune. There is a weight in the air that wasnât there before you arrived. We cannot wait for the formal ceremony. And since you are the only one who hasnât awakened his core, weâll help you wake one today."