"What? Spit it out!" the man said impatiently.
"Oh, it's this." Zaric raised the tiny sack of grain and spoke with an earnest face. "My sister handed over two bundles of arrows, and according to the clan's own rules, that should've earned a bit more than this…"
The man hissed, "What clan rules? Being strong is the rule! What I say becomes the rule!"
He puffed out his chest, dripping arrogance. Zaric's heart twisted with a quiet laugh. Perfect. The fool had walked straight into his trap.
Zaric put on a face of wounded innocence. "Brother, you may set the rules—but shouldn't we at least have something left to live by?"
The words were mild, yet they rippled through the crowd. He had wrapped the man's arrogance in silk and handed it back for everyone to see.
Murmurs began.
"Right, Warrior-brother, I handed over six sets of armor and got barely a handful of grain!"
"Why so few rations this time?"
"I've a family to feed! How are we to live like this?"
The Flintclaw tribe had endured quietly for years. Most wanted to shout, but no one dared—not until someone lit the spark. Zaric's words did that.
The man's expression soured. He hadn't expected a scrawny child to unravel control so quickly. "Shut the f**k up!" he bellowed.
But his roar couldn't drown the tide.
"Give us an explanation!"
"Where's the food we earned?"
When many rebel, laws crumble. Usually, the first to stand alone was crushed; but when the whole square moved, fear gave way to fury.
And then—
"You want an explanation? I'll give you one."
The new voice was calm but carried weight, flowing like steel through the noise. The clamor died at once.
Everyone turned. A silver-armored youth strode through the dust, a long sword at his side.
"It's Young Master Ren!"
"Ren Flintclaw himself!"
The crowd whispered. Ren Flintclaw—seventeen years old, proud prodigy of the Flintclaw clan, and the one most likely to become a Vein Blood Warrior. His potential rivaled even the geniuses of the great tribes.
If the Flintclaw clan produced a Vein Blood Warrior, everything would change. A true warrior could anchor a tribe—could even earn them a place inside a fortified city.
To live in a city meant safety, food, walls thick enough to keep the wild beasts out. For villagers who slept each night fearing claws in the dark, it was paradise.
So when Ren Flintclaw approached, the mob's anger melted into awe.
"Grandfather," he said, bowing slightly to the yellow-robed elder—the Patriarch.
"Ah, Ren. Since you've come, I'll leave this to you."
Ren was young, but in this tribe, a seventeen-year-old with talent outranked most elders.
He turned, smiling faintly, and his gaze fixed directly on Zaric. "You're Zaric, right?"
Zaric's brows twitched. Of all things, Ren had addressed him first—and though the smile was soft, it carried the edge of a knife.
The boy had stirred unrest, and whether on purpose or not, the tribe's young master wasn't likely to let that pass.
"Not bad for a twelve-year-old," Ren said smoothly, patting Zaric's shoulder. "You've got some courage. You might amount to something one day."
The crowd stirred, whispering in surprise. That the clan's prodigy would praise a commoner was unthinkable.
Zaric forced a stiff smile. "You flatter me, Young Master."
But inside, every muscle was taut. When Ren's hand touched his shoulder, a wave of numb heat rippled through his flesh—there and gone in an instant. If Zaric hadn't been hyperaware, he'd have thought it was nerves.
What did he just do?
Ren Flintclaw didn't pat people for kindness. The gleam in his eyes was that of a snake.
"Give them some rations," Ren said to the grain keeper. His voice was almost bored. "The girl's still young. She deserves a few more years before hunger claims her."
"Yes, Young Master!" the man barked, though his face twisted in frustration. He returned with a fifty-pound sack of grain and dropped it at Zaric's feet.
Zaric's wariness deepened, but he bowed slightly. "Thank you, Young Master Ren."
He was boiling inside. This was their own reward—Lyra's arrows traded for scraps—and yet they had to act grateful.
Strength is truth, he reminded himself grimly.
"I so want to give him two panda eyes…" he muttered inwardly, his expression neutral.
The villagers stared in envy. "He's lucky," some whispered. "Young Master Ren even gave him food!"
Then someone shouted, "Young Master Ren, please—tell us why there are so few rations this time!"
"Yeah! Speak for us!"
Ren's smile widened as he stepped up onto the makeshift stage, the sunlight flashing on his silver armor. His earlier words to Zaric already forgotten, he raised a hand.
"My fellow tribesmen," he said warmly, "you've all worked hard these past months."
Flattery first—simple, but effective. The crowd quieted.
"You want an explanation," he continued. "Then I'll give you one. Bring it up!"
Six men appeared, hefting a large wooden chest slung on poles. Zaric's eyes narrowed. He recognized it—Envoy Karr had left it behind after taking the weapons and armor.
"Open it," Ren ordered.
The men pried off the lid.
Brilliant light spilled out, twisting like molten glass, reflecting strange patterns across the ground. The crowd gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.
Ren stepped closer, holding a red stone. He waved it across the shimmering glow. The patterns rippled—then slowly dimmed.
A breath of icy air poured from the chest, sweeping through the square.
And everyone fell silent.