The fire pit roared higher than it should have, tongues of flame bending inward, swallowing the shadows until they formed a circle of faces. Ancestors. Some Sky-Torn recognized—chieftains, hunters, shamans whose bones had long crumbled into soil. Others were strangers, their visages distorted, eyes hollow pools that reflected not firelight, but stars collapsing.
The Villain System's voice coiled between them, not loud but inevitable, like the creak of a bowstring drawn too far:
—Villain Trial Approaches. Outcome will shift tribal fate.
The ancestors spoke over one another, their words like a storm of wings.
"You walk the path of betrayal.""You carry the burden no other dares.""You will be hated, yet you will be remembered."
A woman's voice rose above the rest, sharp as flint. "Do not mistake memory for honor. A name carried on the wind can be curse as well as blessing."
Another voice, older, weary, said: "The people do not see the flood until they are drowning. Will you be stone to hold them—or the water that drowns them faster?"
Sky-Torn felt his chest splitting, ribs pried open by invisible claws. In the wound, he saw glyphs etching themselves across his bones—system runes, cold and silver.
—Villain Points Available: 17. Exchange possible.
The fire snapped. An ancestor with a face like shattered obsidian leaned close, whispering: "Choose. To corrupt the judgment of men is to bind them to your shadow. To let it run free is to risk your own ruin."
Sky-Torn reached into the fire and did not burn. Instead, the flames curled into a vision: the trial ground, elders gathered, colonizers watching with narrowed eyes. Threads of fate wove between them, fragile, golden. At his gesture, the threads blackened, knotting into barbed wire.
—Skill Tree Branch Unlockable: Trial of Tongues. Options: Poisoned Words / Shadow of Doubt.
He saw them play out in miniature:
With Poisoned Words, his enemies' speeches faltered, their voices caught in sudden weakness, their credibility unraveling.
With Shadow of Doubt, his allies too would question him, but the seed of mistrust would spread into the council itself, making every decision thereafter uncertain.
The ancestors watched, silent now. Their silence was worse than judgment.
Sky-Torn drew breath, feeling the System's choices coil tight like serpents in his hand.
—Selection must be made before dawn.
The fire guttered, ancestors dissolving into ash, leaving only the echo of their unfinished blessings—or curses. Sky-Torn woke with embers glowing in his throat, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. The trial awaited.
Dawn broke like a blade over the ridge. Mist hung in the valley, veiling the lodges and the drying racks of fish in a pale shroud. Dogs padded restlessly, sensing unease. The people spoke in hushed tones, children clinging to their mothers' skirts as if the square had become a mouth waiting to devour.
Every step Sky-Torn took toward the trial ground felt heavier, as if unseen hands pulled at his ankles. He passed warriors sharpening spears, women carrying water, old men staring at him without words. Some eyes held faith. Others, disgust. All of them waited to see which face of him would prevail: the healer of fevers, or the corrupter of dreams.
At the trial ground, a great circle had been cleared. Pine boughs had been stripped to the earth, leaving only raw soil scarred with footprints. At the northern edge sat the elders, cloaks heavy with bone beads that clicked like teeth when they shifted. Their staffs rested across their knees, each carved with generations of lineage.
The colonizers stood apart, at the edge of the circle. They did not belong, yet none dared expel them. Their pale faces seemed carved from wax, their clothing harsh against the earth—stiff cloth, buttons glinting like teeth. Their eyes were sharp, vulture-like, watching not just Sky-Torn but the entire tribe. One bent close to another, muttering in his foreign tongue. The words were soft, but their tone was predatory.
A drumbeat opened the gathering. Slow. Relentless.
Wounded Bear, high elder, rose first. His voice was gravel, but it carried weight like a boulder rolling downhill. "Sky-Torn, son of Ash-Wing, you are called to answer for the path you have chosen. Your warnings divide us. Your rituals stir fear. You speak against friendship with these strangers when unity is needed. Today, you may defend yourself."
The System's hum rose in his mind:
—Trial Commenced. Influence paths active.
Sky-Torn stood at the center of the circle, the earth damp beneath his feet. The wind pulled at his braids. He raised his chin, voice steady though his pulse throbbed in his throat.
"I speak not to divide, but to reveal. The fire showed me their ships before they came. The wind carried their hunger before they spoke. You call me traitor, yet it is betrayal to blind ourselves before a flood."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—some nodding fiercely, others shaking their heads. A young warrior spat into the dirt. A grandmother clutched her necklace of shells, muttering a prayer.
Elder Stone-Branch struck his staff upon the ground. "Visions are not law. If every dream dictated our path, we would scatter like leaves in storm. You frighten the people with shadows."
Another elder, Pale Doe, softer of face but no less sharp, leaned forward. "Yet his words are not without weight. He saw their arrival. That cannot be denied."
The System pulsed. The options shimmered across his thoughts like twin knives: Poisoned Words—to steal the strength of Stone-Branch's tongue, make his voice tremble, his certainty collapse before all. Or Shadow of Doubt—to let mistrust bleed wider, turning even Pale Doe's half-support into suspicion.
Elder Swift-Crow rose next, her cloak rustling. Her eyes burned with contempt. "Our people are not children to be scared into obedience. Sky-Torn twists the spirits' whispers to his own ends. If he is not silenced, our guests will see us as weak, divided. What will they think of a council that cannot leash its own shaman?"
The colonizers' eyes gleamed at her words. One smirked faintly, as if pleased to hear his cause argued by a native tongue.
Wounded Bear cut through the murmurs. "We have shared food with the strangers. Their iron tools, their woven cloth, their fire-breathing sticks—they offer power. If we cling to fear, we will fall behind others who embrace them. Sky-Torn, it is you who endangers us with your clinging to the old ways."
A woman in the crowd shouted back, voice raw: "And if his visions are true? If their hunger devours us, will iron feed our children?"
That sparked more shouts. A group of warriors barked agreement, stamping their feet. Others jeered at them, accusing them of cowardice. The square swelled with voices, a storm of anger and uncertainty.
The colonizers stiffened, catching the tone though not the words. Their leader, a broad man with a trimmed beard, exchanged a glance with his companion. They whispered, their faces unreadable.
The council grew restless. The bone beads rattled. The people muttered louder, the circle buzzing with the swarm of half-belief and half-fear.
Sky-Torn felt his heart hammer. He could end this. With a thought, he could sap Wounded Bear's strength, let his throat dry, his arguments fail. Or he could plant a deeper rot, unseen, ensuring that never again would the council move as one.
The ancestors' silence weighed heavy. He thought of his father, Ash-Wing, who had taught him to listen to rivers and winds. He thought of the night he first felt the System burn runes into his bones. He thought of children being led away that morning, their mothers fearful even of words.
The colonizers' eyes glittered like carrion birds waiting for the kill.
The System whispered, insistent now:
—Choose. Path of the Serpent Tongue awaits.
Sky-Torn closed his eyes. He saw the flames again, the barbed wire of fate tightening around the circle of elders. Whatever he chose would scar not only himself, but the tribe.
The people leaned forward, caught between hope and terror. The council sat in judgment. The colonizers waited, silent scavengers ready to feast on whichever carcass fell.
His voice rose again, steady, resonant as a drum:
"I do not stand here to plead. I stand here to warn. If you call me villain, so be it. But remember—when rivers flood, it is not the reed that survives, but the stone that holds its ground."
Gasps echoed. Murmurs surged. Some cried out in agreement, others cursed his name. The council stiffened, glancing at one another. Even Pale Doe's brow furrowed, suspicion flickering across her face.
The System's glow flared within him. One last prompt burned across his mind:
—Final confirmation: Poisoned Words / Shadow of Doubt.
The air held still, every soul waiting. The drumbeat stopped.