The Valkari settlement was alive with firelight and murmurs as night descended. Char moved through the shadows, each step deliberate, every breath controlled. The entire encampment had gathered in the main square, where a raised stone pedestal overlooked the masses. Atop it, draped in ceremonial furs and armor that wasn't his own, stood Lucien Wolfsbane—no longer just a son, but a ruler.
The air was thick with tension. The people had lost their leader, and now they were about to be given another. The torches lining the square burned high, casting flickering gold across the stone structures.
Char's heart pounded in his chest. He wasn't here for Lucien—not yet. His first obstacle was the guards.
They saw him the moment he stepped into the torchlight.
"There!" One of them barked.
The five warriors standing between him and the pedestal turned, their expressions shifting from surprise to hardened resolve. Their silver-blue armor reflected the flames as they unsheathed their weapons—curved Valkari blades, wickedly sharp and designed for precise, brutal cuts.
Char rolled his shoulders. He only had his daggers. That was fine.
The first guard lunged, swift and aggressive. Char barely shifted to the side before bringing his dagger up in a clean arc, slicing across the warrior's arm. The Valkari grunted but didn't fall—these were trained fighters, conditioned to withstand pain.
The second came at him from the side, swinging his sword low. Char leapt back, dodging the slice by mere inches. The moment his feet touched the ground, he pushed forward, using the momentum to duck under a third guard's strike. His daggers flashed in the firelight as he twisted, landing a precise cut along the back of the warrior's knee.
A pained cry. Another down.
The remaining three adjusted their stances, more cautious now. They weren't going to underestimate him.
Char exhaled sharply. He wasn't going to waste time.
The next clash was a blur of steel and movement. Char moved like a shadow, slipping between their attacks with precision. His daggers were an extension of himself, striking fast and efficiently, always aiming for joints and tendons—non-lethal, but crippling.
One guard managed to grab his arm. Char gritted his teeth and wrenched free, twisting his body to slam an elbow into the warrior's jaw. The guard staggered, dazed. Char swept his leg out, knocking him to the ground.
The last one came at him full force, roaring with fury. Char caught the downward slash on the edge of his dagger, redirecting the force. He spun, slamming the hilt of his other dagger against the guard's ribs. A pained wheeze escaped his opponent, and Char followed up by driving his knee into the warrior's gut. The guard collapsed.
Silence fell.
Char stood amidst the fallen warriors, breathing heavily. None of them were dead—he had made sure of that—but they wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
He wiped the blood from his cheek, sheathed his daggers, and turned his gaze toward the pedestal.
Lucien's speech was about to begin.
And Char was done waiting.
But before he could begin calling out Lucien's name, he saw a silhouetted person—no, two people— appearing from the fire-illuminated stone.
Char's fingers twitched toward his daggers, but he forced himself still.
Selka stood before him, barely more than a shadow against the firelit stone, her small frame trembling. Flint's arm was coiled around her, a dagger pressed against her throat. His eyes gleamed with malice, his smirk curling with amusement.
Char swallowed hard, his entire body screaming to move—to lunge, to cut Flint down before he could hurt her. But he couldn't. One wrong step, and the blade would slice clean through Selka's throat.
From the pedestal, Lucien descended with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd hushed as their new chief moved, and in the flickering torchlight, his expression was unreadable. He came to stand before Char, his arms crossed.
"Well," Lucien said, voice carrying just enough authority to sound measured, calm. "You certainly know how to make a mess of things, don't you?"
Char barely heard him. His eyes flicked to Selka, then back to Flint.
Then, movement from the side—two more Valkari warriors emerged from the shadows, dragging familiar figures forward.
Mira and Merrick.
Mira was pale, her injuries worsening—she had fought, that much was clear from the blood staining her shirt. Her breathing was labored, but she was conscious, held upright by the soldiers gripping her arms. Merrick, on the other hand, was struggling against his captors, his expression dark with rage.
Char clenched his fists. His mind whirled.
The people of the settlement were watching, unaware of Selka's silent struggle just beyond the firelight. They only saw Lucien, standing before the captured humans, ready to deliver judgment.
A show.
That's what this was. A carefully orchestrated spectacle.
Lucien exhaled through his nose and turned back to the crowd, raising his voice.
"These humans," he began, "have violated the sanctity of our home. They have stolen from us, disrespected our laws, and brought chaos to our people. And worst of all—" He gestured toward Mira and Merrick, his gaze darkening. "—they have conspired against us. A deception meant to undermine our leadership."
Murmurs spread through the gathered Valkari. Char's stomach churned. Lies.
Flint chuckled softly, shifting his grip on Selka. "Well, well," he murmured near Char's ear, low enough that no one else could hear. "Quite the predicament, isn't it? I wonder what you'll do."
Char ignored him. He forced his breathing steady, assessing everything in front of him. Mira's condition. Merrick's fury. Flint's position. Lucien's tone.
He could feel the weight of his daggers against his belt. The weight of choice pressing down on his chest.
He had to act.
*
Lucien's voice was low, barely audible over the murmuring crowd.
"You will leave."
His lips barely moved as he spoke, his jaw clenched so tightly that Char could hear the strain in his voice. But his next words, spoken even softer, were unmistakable.
"If you don't… she dies."
Char's fists curled.
Lucien's face was stone, but something flickered beneath it—something bitter, hateful. Not toward Char. Not toward Selka. But toward the fact that he had to say it at all. It did seem that even he knew the depravity of threatening the life of an innocent little girl in order to get what he wanted.
Char's mind raced, considering every option, every move, every outcome. If he left, Selka lived, but Flint would still hold the power here. Lucien would still be under his thumb, and Mira and Merrick would still be at their mercy. If he fought—if he so much as twitched—Flint wouldn't hesitate to spill Selka's blood.
It was a perfect trap. Char was angry at how easily and simply he had fallen for it. His desperation to save Selka had probably led him to be more reckless than he usually was. He was the one who created this world and this story, and yet he was unable to stop himself from losing against characters he himself had written. What an idiot.
And so Char did the only thing he could.
He raised his chin and, loud enough for all to hear, spoke the vilest threat he could muster.
"No."
Lucien stiffened. The murmuring of the Valkari grew louder.
Char took a step forward, locking eyes with the new chief, his voice carrying across the gathering.
"Here's what's going to happen, Lucien," he said, slow and deliberate. "You are going to step down as Chief. You're going to stop Flint and let Selka go. You're going to end this right now."
Lucien's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth, but Char cut him off.
"If you don't," Char continued, his voice growing sharper, "I will kill you. I will carve through your guards, your advisors—every single Valkari that gets in my way. Even the ones who have nothing to do with this."
A ripple of horror moved through the crowd.
"I will burn this settlement to the ground." His voice did not waver. "And I will make sure that every last one of you knows exactly what happens when you try to take something from me."
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then—
A laugh.
Low, dark, amused.
Flint.
"Oh, Char," he mused, his grip on Selka tightening. "That's quite the bold declaration."
Lucien, however, didn't look amused. He looked furious.
"You dare—"
"I dare," Char snapped. "Because I know exactly what kind of person you are."
He took another step forward.
"You're not baffling. You're not some tyrant. You don't want to do this—but you think you have to. You think this is the only way to hold your people together."
Lucien's expression darkened.
"But if you go through with this," Char pressed, "you will be remembered not as the rightful chief of the Valkari—but as the coward who let a snake whisper in his ear and led his people to ruin."
Lucien's hand twitched at his side.
Char felt the tension in the air shift. He glanced at Flint, then at Selka, then at the captured forms of Mira and Merrick, then finally back to Lucien. It was time for the Chief to make his decision. And while Char was bluffing about killing the innocent Valkari there, if Lucien took a stand against him, he wouldn't hesitate to give him the same fate he intended to give Flint.