The fire in the council lodge had long since burned down to coals, yet Sky-Torn sat unmoving, knees drawn to his chest, eyes fixed on the glow as though the embers whispered secret things. The night air pressed heavy, thick with the taste of smoke and damp earth, carrying the memory of the elders' divided voices.
They had argued until the moon stood high: some calling the pale-faced strangers saviors, others snarling warnings that they would eat the heart of the people. And in the midst of it, Sky-Torn had felt the System stir, whispering of points earned through doubt, mistrust, and manipulation.
[Villain Points: +35][New Trait: Doubt-Sower – Your words breed suspicion more easily. Councils fracture quicker under your tongue.]
The glowing script had burned behind his eyelids until he had to clench them shut. He had wanted peace—hadn't he? Yet the System rewarded discord. The more their unity frayed, the more power pooled in his hands.
He wondered, not for the first time, if his ancestors watched him with disgust.
A rustle at the doorway cut his thoughts. Wounded Bear entered, shoulders squared, his broad frame half-swallowed by shadow.
"You speak like fire, cousin," Wounded Bear said, his voice low. "But fire burns the hand that tends it."
Sky-Torn looked up. "And what of a hand already burned?"
The warrior's silence stretched. His gaze was steady, but behind it flickered something raw—fear, perhaps, or sorrow.
"You walk a path I do not know," Wounded Bear said finally. "The elders are torn. Some bend their ears to you, some to the strangers. But I will not let this people tear itself apart."
Sky-Torn felt the System hum, offering him choices, dangling its unseen ledger:
[Option A: Appease Wounded Bear, reduce his suspicion, lose 10 Villain Points.][Option B: Deepen his doubt, gain 20 Villain Points.]
His heart hammered. Each choice felt like a stone cast into a river that would one day flood the valley.
He spoke carefully, "I seek not to divide, Wounded Bear. Only to show what lies beyond the horizon. You would march blind into a storm."
The warrior's jaw tightened. He turned, leaving without reply.
Sky-Torn exhaled, shivering though the fire was warm. The System's tally flickered before him.
[Villain Points: +20]
The next days wound taut as a bowstring. The strangers lingered at the edge of the valley, their camp of canvas and wood smelling of iron and strange oils. Some of the younger hunters slipped away to watch them, returning with tales of gleaming tools, beads of glass, and weapons that spat thunder.
Curiosity spread like smoke, curling into the hearts of those who had once sworn to heed Sky-Torn's warnings. Mothers whispered of blankets, warriors of iron blades that could fell a deer in a single stroke.
Every whisper fed the System.
[Villain Points: +5][Villain Points: +10]
It was as if destiny itself fattened on the doubts of his people. Sky-Torn sometimes caught himself wondering if the colonizers' campfire smoke reached into his dreams, for in sleep he saw rivers boiling with blood, children clutching shiny trinkets as spears pierced their chests, and an endless drumbeat that sounded like the tramp of iron-shod boots.
Each morning, he woke with sweat cooling on his brow, the whisper of the System in his ear: This is the shape of tomorrow. Unless you bend it.
On the fourth night, the council reconvened. The lodge thrummed with heat, bodies pressed close, voices sharp with hunger and suspicion. Elder Swift-Owl spoke first, leaning on her carved staff, her eyes sharp as an eagle's despite her many winters.
"We must take what is offered. The strangers promise peace, and their gifts prove their strength."
Another elder snapped back, "Strength cuts both ways! Would you bind our necks with their chains before the first snows?"
The argument flared, a storm of words, until the whole circle seemed ready to split. Even the young braves at the back muttered, some eager for iron and thunder-weapons, others muttering curses at the thought of bending to outsiders.
Sky-Torn closed his eyes, and the System whispered:
[Quest Unlocked: Guide the Council's Fate][Objective: Twist the decision in your favor. Reward: +100 Villain Points, Skill Upgrade.]
When he opened them, he saw the lodge as if through a veil. Threads of light ran from each elder's chest—threads of fear, greed, pride. Some threads tangled together, some frayed loose. And he knew, with a terrible clarity, which words would pluck them like strings.
He rose.
"You speak of peace," he said, voice low but cutting through the din. "But peace bought with gifts is no peace. Would you trade your children's blood for beads of glass? Would you let your songs be forgotten for the shine of a stranger's axe?"
Gasps rippled. Elder Swift-Owl's eyes narrowed, staff striking the earth for silence.
"Your tongue drips poison, Sky-Torn. Do you not see their goodwill?"
He turned his gaze upon her, and the threads gleamed. "Goodwill is a mask, Elder. Behind it waits hunger. The wolf does not show its teeth until the lamb is lulled to sleep."
The murmurs swelled. Some nodded, faces grim. Others frowned, torn.
[Villain Points: +45][Progress: Quest 72%]
The tension thickened, a storm about to break.
Then Wounded Bear rose.
"My cousin speaks of wolves," he said, his voice ringing. "Yet I see a wolf standing here. Sky-Torn would have us mistrust all, even our own hearts. That path leads only to ruin."
The lodge fell into silence. All eyes turned.
The System pulsed.
[Critical Choice Available: Duel of Words or Duel of Blood.][Option A: Challenge Wounded Bear's honor in council. Gain +75 Villain Points if victorious.][Option B: Provoke a duel outside. Gain +150 Villain Points if victorious. Fatal risk.]
Sky-Torn's throat went dry. He could feel history itself coiling, ready to strike.
The fire snapped, sparks spiraling upward like lost souls. Sky-Torn spread his hands.
"You fear me, cousin," he said, voice smooth as obsidian. "But fear speaks louder than truth. If you believe I am the wolf, then test me before the council. Let all here judge whose words carry the spirit of our ancestors."
Gasps rang out. Elders leaned forward, eyes gleaming. A duel of words—a sacred contest rarely invoked, where two would speak in turns, calling on memory, song, and prophecy, until the council judged.
Wounded Bear's jaw tightened. "So be it."
The System blazed.
[New Trial: Duel of Words Initiated][Victory Reward: +75 Villain Points, New Skill Unlocked.][Failure Penalty: -50 Villain Points, Council Authority Severely Reduced.]
Sky-Torn's pulse thundered in his ears. He had bought himself a contest, not bloodshed—yet words could cut as deeply as iron.
The council lodge roared with anticipation, the fire flaring high as though the ancestors themselves bent close to watch.
And in that fire, Sky-Torn glimpsed a shape—tall, faceless, cloaked in ash. The Villain System incarnate, perhaps. Or merely his own unraveling mind.
Its whisper coiled through him: Speak, and the world shall bend. Fail, and you will be nothing but ash yourself.
The chapter closes as Sky-Torn takes his first breath, ready to unleash words that will decide the tribe's fate.