The oppressive air inside the wooden lodge finally lifted a little as the eldest of the lizardfolk priests spoke. His age-worn voice calmed the room more effectively than any command.
Chieftain Shasuryu Shasha remained silent. He understood his position, but even as chieftain, he knew the words of the elder priest held more weight in a crisis like this.
"We've... we've settled them," came a stuttering reply from a dark-scaled warrior crouched in the corner of the hut. "Fifty refugees from the Small Fang Tribe made it."
"Thirty are females. Fifteen are children. The rest... five elderly males."
"The Dragon Tusk Tribe's people are still arriving in batches. We haven't tallied their numbers yet."
Though his voice started hesitant, the lizard warrior gained confidence as he spoke, even allowing a flicker of excitement into his tone. Those present knew why.
Most of the refugees were women.
To common lizardfolk, this was cause for joy. More mates meant stronger future generations. But to those seated in this room, it signaled something far more terrifying.
"This isn't right," growled the tribe's huntmaster, his voice a heavy rumble.
Of course it wasn't.
Zaryusu Shasha shifted slightly where he sat cross-legged, and the weapon at his waist scraped against his thigh, making a dry "clack" sound as scale brushed steel.
A cold sensation crept up his side, momentarily halting the words on his tongue.
The weapon in question was no ordinary tool of war. It was a pale-bladed hybrid between a trident and a saber, pulsing faintly with frost. This was their tribe's sacred relic - The Frost Pain.
"Whatever happened, it doesn't make sense," Shasuryu finally said, planting his thick tail into the ground to brace his posture. "When danger comes, warriors are the first to flee or fight. The weak die. That's the way of things. But this time?"
He clenched his clawed fist. "Not a single warrior made it out alive."
He paused, then spat bitterly, "What kindness..."
Those two words fell like a stone in water.
If their warriors had all perished and only the weak survived, then their enemy hadn't been sloppy. He had been precise. Surgical.
A display of overwhelming power... or a sign he didn't even care.
Neither option sat well with the lizardfolk.
"Reports say he's a human spellcaster. Third Tier. Capable of summoning two angelic monsters simultaneously," said another priest, voice quivering.
That alone was terrifying. The most powerful elder priest among them had only recently grasped the Second Tier.
"And that's just what we know," added another. "According to Dragon Tuck survivors, even when they killed several of those summoned angels, more just kept coming."
"Which implies a vast well of mana," the first priest muttered grimly.
With every new piece of intelligence, the fear in the room began to shift, not vanish, but transform into grim understanding.
"Still," the eldest priest said quietly, "he is but one man. A powerful Third Tier spellcaster, yes. But not unbeatable."
"Small Fang and Dragon Tusk were taken by surprise. We're not," he added. "Now that we know, we can plan. And planning levels the battlefield."
For a moment, hope flickered.
Then, a cold voice cut in.
"Exactly because he's only one man," said Zaryusu Shasha, who had remained silent until now, "have you considered that we still might be underestimating him?"
The room went quiet.
"You're a wanderer, not a strategist!" barked the burly huntmaster. "Don't speak out of turn!"
"I'm stating a possibility," Zaryusu replied, unfazed.
"A possibility? So what, we tuck our tails and run?" the huntmaster snarled.
"Are you a fool?" Zaryusu snapped back. "If he's even stronger than our best guesses, then our current plans might be worthless. We need contingencies. And we need to warn the Red-Eye and Razor-Tail Tribes."
He stood up, tail swishing sharply. "If we let this man escape, we may never get another chance."
The huntmaster started to argue, but the elder priest roared over them both, "Enough!"
The room fell into silence once more.
"Chieftain," the elder turned, "your decision?"
Shasuryu Shasha nodded. "Zaryusu is right. If this human survives our counterattack, he'll be a greater threat than ever. We can't afford a second failure."
"This isn't just our tribe's problem anymore."
With that, the Green Claw Tribe began full mobilization. Two squads were dispatched, one toward the Red-Eye Tribe, the other toward the Razor-Tail Tribe.
And within the Green Claw Tribe itself, all warriors were called to arms. Day and night patrols guarded against another surprise assault, while scouting teams were sent to examine the ruins of the fallen Dragon Tusk Tribe.
As the three tribes prepared to unite, a curious figure emerged within Green Claw's borders.
A lanky lizardfolk, with dull black scales and a fishing basket strapped to his back, wandered the streets. He greeted passing warriors casually as he made his way out of the village.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't safe to leave.
But fish, especially fresh, raw fish were something lizardfolk considered vital. And their village sat conveniently close to a wide lake.
This lizardfolk reached the lakeshore, looked around carefully, then with a soft plop, slipped into the water.
The shadow beneath the surface darted swiftly toward the deeper end.
But when he resurfaced, something had changed.
His frame shrank visibly, his bulky body narrowing.
The black scales on his brow shrank and pulled inwards, revealing sharp, needle-like protrusions.
He wasn't a lizardfolk at all.
He was a Burrow-Skink, a rare subterranean species from the upper swamps.
And those spines on his head were proof enough.
Lifting a clawed hand, he revealed a black ring glowing faintly on his finger.
A magic item.
Thanks to that ring and a few other enchanted trinkets, he had fooled the lizardfolk for months.
"A bunch of thick-headed brutes," he muttered. "This entire swamp should've belonged to us from the start."
Casting one last glance around, he turned and slinked into the deeper reaches of the upper swamp.
The deeper he went, the wilder the terrain became. Vines, fog, moss, it was a mess. But he knew every step.
Before long, he reached a dilapidated stone fortress, half-swallowed by roots and mist. It stood three stories tall, barely holding together.
The Burrow-Skink's face turned reverent. His steps slowed.
Then, a voice whispered behind him.
"Well, well... what do we have here?"
The voice was eerie, feminine, and laced with cruel amusement.
"But such a cute little lizard," it cooed.
There had been nothing behind him a second ago. Nothing at all.
The Burrow-Skink didn't hesitate. He dropped to the ground and pressed his forehead to the dirt.
"Great Master, the lizardfolk have encountered trouble."
"Oh?" the voice crooned, "Tell me more. Make it worth my attention, little spy."
As he relayed the events, the mood around him shifted.
"Now that is interesting. Off you go."
He scurried away, still bowing.
From the fortress gate, a slender figure stepped into view. But when her shadow fell on the stone, it split, two distinct forms.
"You heard that?" the eerie woman asked.
Another voice answered from above, calm and cold.
"I did. And it bored me."
High above, a rotten window creaked open.
A man stood there. Human. Hooked nose, pale skin, eyes like dull amber stones. He wore a black robe, and his mere presence warped the air around him.
Dust and debris danced around him, unsettled by the force of his magic.
"Angels? From the Holy Kingdom?"
His eyes narrowed, voice like ice.
"They'd best not interfere with my plans."
Dragon Tusk Tribe Ruins.
Lyle dropped the scroll he was reading and rubbed his temples. He'd been poring over lizardfolk magical theory and historical rituals for two days straight.
Thank the gods he'd had the foresight to spare one of their priests. The rest had been less fortunate.
He stretched, spine cracking satisfyingly, and reached down to pat the head of the ghostly hound napping by his side.
"Two days... Wonder what the lizards are up to by now?"