When the unwelcome guest stepped through the shattered doorway, Zaric frowned. He recognized the brute immediately — the same man who had taunted them during the ration dispute.
Brant Ironjaw.
"What do you want?" Lyra Terran's voice trembled as she instinctively slid a hand beneath the blanket, gripping the arrow hidden there.
Brant smirked, the torchlight catching on the scars across his jaw. "Relax, girl. I'm here on official business. Young Master Ren Flintclaw has entered seclusion to cultivate. For the next three months, he'll prepare to advance to Vein Blood Warrior before the Ironfang Dominion's warrior trials."
He leaned on the doorframe, grin widening. "The Patriarch's orders are simple — every able body in the clan will head into the Copperveil Mines at dawn. You're to dig and deliver eight pounds of ore a day. Those ores will be used for Young Master Ren's soaking baths."
"Mining?" Lyra's expression darkened. "You expect everyone to dig metal from stone? Even the children? That's suicide!"
Her voice cracked with fury. "And what of our arrow crafting? Without weapons, how will we trade with the bigger tribes for rations? You'll starve us all!"
Brant threw his head back with a laugh. "Hah! You think small, girl. When Young Master Ren becomes a Vein Blood Warrior and joins the Dominion, you won't need to trade anymore. You'll have food, safety—maybe even fine clothes. Glory for generations!"
His grin slithered toward her. "And you'll look even prettier with some meat on those bones."
Lyra's grip on the arrow tightened until her knuckles went white. "My brother's body is still weak from his fall," she snapped. "Forcing him to mine will kill him!"
Brant sneered. "A single life is nothing beside the clan's future. When Young Master Ren rises, the Flintclaw Tribe will prosper for a hundred years! Your family name will be remembered."
"Remembered," Zaric muttered under his breath, "on a gravestone."
Brant ignored him. "Besides, the Patriarch is generous. The leftover ore-dust from Young Master's baths will be given back to you peasants. So you can 'soak' in the remains. Normally, that's reserved for the warrior camp."
Lyra's lip trembled with fury. "And if we fail to meet this quota?"
Brant's tone turned cold. "Then you don't eat. Those who can't dig don't deserve to live. Simple."
He turned his sharp gaze toward Zaric, still seated on the bed. "And you—still breathing, are you? I heard you were half-dead. Let's see how bad those injuries really are."
He reached forward, thick fingers curling like claws.
But in that instant, something in Zaric shifted.
The moment Brant lunged, the world slowed. The man's muscles bunched, his eyes narrowed, and every motion stretched long and deliberate, like syrup dripping through the air.
Zaric could see it all — every twitch, every grain of dust disturbed by Brant's steps. Even Lyra's frightened face, the arrow trembling under her hand.
Time froze.
A cool current rose from the Yellow Amethyst, washing through his mind. His pulse steadied; his breathing deepened.
The amethyst again?
For a heartbeat, an image formed in his mind: he dodged Brant's strike, snatched Lyra's arrow, and drove it through the man's throat — a clean kill.
It was vivid, instinctive, perfect.
But Zaric forced the thought away. Not yet.
If he killed a warrior camp member now, Ren Flintclaw's wrath would erase their family overnight. He couldn't reveal his power — not yet.
Brant's hand reached him — and Zaric slipped aside.
The fingers brushed his shirt, tearing only cloth.
Brant stumbled, blinking. "You little—" He recovered fast, unwilling to look foolish. With a snarl, he seized Zaric by the arm and threw him back onto the bed.
"Seems the monkey's not crippled after all." Brant's smirk returned. "Tomorrow at sunset, I want eight pounds of ore. For every pound missing, you'll lose ten pounds of rations. Understand?"
He stomped out, slamming the door behind him.
Lyra rushed to Zaric's side. "Zac, are you alright?"
He didn't answer right away. His heart was pounding, not from fear — from exhilaration.
What was that just now?
Brant Ironjaw, a trained fighter, had moved slower than a child in Zaric's sight. His senses had sharpened, his reflexes amplified.
Could it be… his body?
"Sis," Zaric said suddenly, "what male tier was I before? In the clan?"
Lyra blinked. "Why are you asking that? Zac, you weren't even a proper tier. Even the weakest — Tier Five — can lift a hundred pounds. You could barely lift thirty."
"Thirty pounds, huh…" Zaric rubbed his chin. "That's about a sack of grain."
"Why do you ask?"
He smiled faintly. "Just curious. Where are the clan's test stones kept?"
"Behind the village, at the training grounds."
"Perfect." Zaric stood, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. "Get some rest, Sister Lyra. We'll need strength for tomorrow's mining."
That night, the Flintclaw village slept under a sky of silver stars. No torches, no oil lamps — only the cold glimmer of constellations above.
A lone shadow slipped through the dark toward the training fields.
The air was silent, save for the faint hum of night insects. Rows of stone weights lined the field, just as Lyra had said.
"Found you," Zaric whispered.
Blocks from twenty pounds to five hundred lay scattered across the yard — even a massive one-thousand-pound roller stone used by the warrior camp.
He stepped forward, flexing his fingers.
"I need to know… what I've become."