Pausing at the edge of the clearing, his heavy staff sinking slightly into the soft earth, the increasing wind pulling at his pouch and hanging flute. Behind him, the familiar silhouette of Valdar lingered beside Elinor, a small blue dot against the backdrop of humans. He could feel the weight of their parting in the air, like an arrow drawn taut but never loosed.

  Krava allowed himself to look back. Just one more glance at his old friend—his brother-in-arms through wars that had forged and broken so many—but not this.

  How could it have turned out like this, Valdar? Do you really think this creature with the power over death can unite our valley? Do you believe your dream of becoming one people is impossible by ourselves? Human webs of promises and strange powers… You are blind to her ambitions, old friend… She is a poison.

  “Fool,” he sighed, his cold eyes shifting to the colossal quen’talrat and the white-skinned ri’bot next to her. “She’ll consume you in the end… I hope I won’t be too late to save you.”

  Turning away, he joined his warriors in their shameful retreat. The memory of Valdar’s calm, almost serene acceptance gnawed at his chest and ignited a fire in his aged body. Krava’s grip tightened on his staff, focus drifting to the sole human he’d retained—Jennifer.

  The human feels the same as Elinor… A tide waiting to drag me into her depths. I cannot trust any human…but how she reacts will tell me much.

  Calling for his officers to rally around him, he gave them swift commands, feeling the skin-tingling sensation of a terrible storm coming. Krava had seen Elinor’s power firsthand, the way she wove life and death into tools of absolute dominion. He had no illusions about what lay ahead. The message he sent with them to deliver to their clan was a simple one, yet it would light the flames of war: The Fire Wars start once again. Death is coming.

  His forces would rally the clans scattered across the south of the valley mountains. They would move quickly, sending warnings to the Nalvean Empire to be cautious of Elinor; a threat like unto the White God is rising. Every able warrior must be gathered, every blade sharpened. The valley was no longer safe; it would soon become a crucible.

  Dalria, young and ready for action shot out of the trees, brow creased with confusion and rage. “Elder Chief! We are leaving in disgrace? I have heard from the scouts that this creature named Elinor has humiliated our clan and pointed out our advanced preparations but…what is this about a quen’talrat?”

  Krava didn’t stop, watching his officers leave to disperse his orders as the mistral unit hung in the distance, their Mystics keeping an eye on everything. He turned to the young Xaria and directed her toward Jennifer.

  “You will be in charge of escorting this human to the grasslands. If Valdar is behind Elinor, then she has the reputation she needs to challenge any opposition in the Delthax… Even Valdar’s own grandson.”

  Shock replaced Dalria’s frustration. “Elder Chief Valdar…opposes us? I had not heard about that,” she muttered, nose creasing as the flash of betrayal darkened her face. “We are to march toward the grasslands?”

  Krava could see the young woman wanted to ask more questions and was likely feeling a rush of emotions at this moment. How she responded and took charge would determine if she really was ready to take on this mantle of Xaria.

  He slowed in his path back to their secondary camp, feeling the cool breeze picking up. I need to hurry and push toward the grasslands… The journey is long to reach the Great Chiefs and it will take time to convince them to view the evidence.

  Making a gesture he motioned for Jennifer to be brought to him while continuing to address Dalria. “With Elinor’s powers over the dead, I have no doubt the Wixum will fall into line without a whisper. The Flex and Delthax will fall soon enough. She’s also blinded the Roxim by lulling them in with weapons from her previous world to make up for their lost Mysticism.”

  “Is it that dire? Elder Chief, we should take care of her now!” Her orange skin gleaming in the light that pierced the canopy. Her grin was sharp, her spear resting loosely on her shoulder. There was an eagerness in her eyes that he had come to distrust. “Should we not?”

  You’re not thinking clearly… Perhaps my decision was a bit rushed to give her this opportunity. Ambition is good in the young…but it can burn too brightly and threaten wisdom that will keep you alive for decades to come.

  “Think clearly, Dalria,” he began, voice low and steady as others drew closer to listen. “You may want vengeance for my disgrace, but that desire will only lead to ruin if you do not temper it. There is a time and place for pride.”

  “Of course,” she mumbled, cheer diminishing for a moment, then returned, though weaker this time.

  “Given the threat Elinor is—this human creature—I would have cut her to pieces regardless of the other clans’ opinions. I do not fear the other three clans in the slightest… So why do you think I decided this course of action is best, Dalria?”

  “With respect, Elder Chief, as you said, we can’t let her go unchallenged. You’ve seen what she’s done. Letting her consolidate her power is…not wise. Is this a test of my courage? Between the minstrels, you, and me, we could slaughter every—”

  “That quen’talrat Elite Hunter and Ethereal Scout will tear through every one of the forces we brought with the exception of maybe you, young Xaria,” Krava cut her off sharply, causing her jaw to snap shut. “Yes, I know you have hot blood at this moment. But she holds power that cannot be underestimated. You will not waste your warriors or your lives in some futile attempt at glory. Understood?”

  Dalria scowled but nodded. “Understood.”

  “Ahem. Elder Chief Krava?” the human chimed on approach.

  He held up a hand as the warrior escorting Jennifer almost backhanded her for speaking to him without prompt. The small creature didn’t flinch once, confirming Krava’s suspicions. This was not one of the weak humans they’d brought back but a leader of some kind… One Elinor was opposed to and who could be a competing rival. Her words were chosen carefully, and not what he had expected.

  “The Xaltan,” she suggested, her tone smooth as river stones, “could be persuaded to join us, I believe. Their strength would add a formidable barrier to whatever Elinor plans next before you gather the forces of the Great Chiefs of the Lowlands.”

  Krava didn’t respond immediately, his pale eyes scanning the secondary camp as they arrived. Where did she learn about the Xaltan? The frightening part is that she’s not wrong… Her Mysticism is as dangerous as Elinor’s.

  His gaze drifted from the wide-eyed warriors around the camp, awaiting his orders for their company since the main force was already preparing to return to their land. After careful deliberation, he turned his attention to Jennifer and the new Xaria nearby.

  Xaria burn or thrive… Ambition is tested in flames. I cannot waste warriors but she needs to go through her marks. Humans are snakes in the brush but will you heed my wisdom…or fall for the promises she weaves, as Valdar fell for Elinor’s sweet words.

  Tone neutral, he said, “Dalria will handle the human hostage. I’ll hold you responsible if this falls apart, Xaria. Be careful of her words…but gain the Xaltan’s support by informing them of the Roxim’s weaknesses and the threat Elinor poses.”

  “Me? A solo mission?” Goosebumps ran down her slick skin as she placed a fist over her chest. “Of course, Elder Chief! I will gladly jump into Xaltan territory and deliver your message personally.”

  Krava’s hands tightened around his staff. You’re focusing on the wrong part of the duty. The Xaltan are not as dangerous as the frail human you are escorting. I hope you do not disappoint me.

  “The human’s name is Jennifer,” he continued, catching every twitch she made. “She is a human of some…power. Be cautious of her. I will leave you to decide how many of your squadron will stay with you but once you have finished pitting the Xaltan against Elinor, you are to take her to the Grasslands.”

  His vision narrowed, causing sweat to gather across the young woman’s skin under his scrutiny. “Under no circumstances are you to take her to the clan… Understood?”

  “Yes!”

  Jennifer’s expression matched Elinor’s—perhaps a smile—though he thought he caught a flicker of something else in her face. Satisfaction, perhaps. “A wise decision, Elder Chief. Xaria Dalria seems most qualified.”

  He gave her a long stare before grunting. “If Elinor weren’t a greater threat than you, then it would be you who was gutted here and now.”

  She gave him a deep bow. “Then I count myself most fortunate. Please, make use of my talents and knowledge. I will tell you all of Elinor’s weaknesses.”

  Brushing past the woman, he muttered, “I am counting on you, Dalria.”

  Krava didn’t look at her again. He didn’t trust her—didn’t trust any of the humans, with their soft voices and hidden edges. Yet, for now, this could turn out in their favor. Allowing a human to fight a human would give far more insight than anything she would tell him outright.

  He didn’t look back at Jennifer or Dalria as he strode into the shadows of the jungle with a solemn heart. The storm rolling in overhead was a fitting backdrop to the chaos brewing in his chest. Stopping beside two of his minstrel Mystics, their lithe forms blending seamlessly into the foliage, he placed a heavy hand on each of their shoulders.

  “Come with me,” he said, his voice a low rumble against the rising winds.

  The elder of the two Mystics inclined his head silently, but the younger, with streaks of gold painted across her arms, cast a questioning glance toward Dalria, who was already organizing her warriors.

  “Elder Chief,” Dalria called, stepping forward, her voice edged with concern. “You shouldn’t go alone—eh, even with two Mystics. There are too many dangers beyond the valley, especially with this storm and Elinor’s undead forces.”

  Krava smiled, faint but sharp as she jogged forward to re-engage him. “You are young, full of fire,” he said, his tone almost indulgent. “But don’t mistake energy for understanding. You have much to learn in being a Xaria. Be smart—do not overestimate your strength, nor underestimate mine. I am still a Rank-4 Xaria, despite my age.”

  He didn’t wait for her reply. With a fluid leap, he disappeared into the trees, the two Mystics following close behind. The branches bent under his weight as he climbed higher, several other minstrels having taken the hint to join from the shadows until the canopy opened. The first lashes of rain streaking the darkening the skies showed in the distance.

  The wind roared, pulling at his pouch and rattling the flute tied to his staff. At the top of the trees, he paused. The two Mystics stopped a few paces back, crouching silently on the thick branches. Krava turned to face them, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind.

  “The humans are crafty,” he muttered, looking down from their high perch to the clearing, where the giant quen’talrat loomed. “Their power lies not only in their weapons, or even their otherworldly abilities, but in their convincing words. Elinor is a force unlike any we have faced, and this Jennifer—” His expression darkened. “—she is no less dangerous.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The Mystics nodded, their expressions grim but resolute.

  “Dalria is young and impressionable,” Krava continued. “How she handles this task with the human will determine her worthiness. But mark this: she is not to return to the clan with Jennifer. Be like the Ethereal and watch everything. Your eyes are mine. If she falls for vengeance and glory…then she will do so of her own consequence. The clan will live on.”

  The two Mystics saluted silently, their hands forming the intricate pattern of the clan’s minstrel oath. Few understood this side of their clan, even within its ranks. Minstrels were of a class of their own…and Elinor managed to slay one. Without another word, they disappeared into the jungle, their forms swallowed by the rain-slicked leaves.

  Krava breathed deeply, watching the storm’s fury rush across the valley, the sensation it brought washing over him. He leapt down, branch to branch on his passage toward the river. A time passed in silence, only broken by the crack of distant thunder, until his feet met the soft mud of the riverbank.

  A faint quake ran from the pouch against his chest—a message—causing him to pause by the swollen waters, churning angrily from the rising winds, and he crouched at the edge, untying the leather strap binding the contents together. He extracted the spiked yellow seed quivered, one of its jagged points weeping amber.

  The sight sent a shiver through his spine. Something important has already happened? This is Kestilsa… What has Dalria done? Or…has she been killed by the human? If so…

  He reached for the ritualistic flute tied to his staff and paused, his fingers brushing the worn wood. A single tear slipped down his weathered cheek, mingling with the rain.

  Valdar… If you hadn’t joined her… This time you’ve gone too far. Is there anything left of you now? Or has that creature stolen you entirely?

  Shaking off the thought, he washed the weeping amber sphere in the water before returning it to his pouch. Next, he plucked out a vibrant orange pod from within and placed it on a stone beside him. Bringing the flute to his lips, he played a few sharp notes. The seed tumbled, tendrils snaking out to writhe like roots in search of soil. They coiled upward, forming a lattice-like mask, which he lifted and pressed over his left eye.

  When he opened it, the world fractured and reformed in a rush. He was no longer staring at the riverbank but through the eyes of one of his minstrel scouts—one use of their diverse Mysticism. The scout crouched in the jungle’s shadows, peering into the camp where Dalria and Jennifer stood in quiet conversation.

  Krava’s breath hitched as he watched Jennifer extend her hand, her voice low and soothing. A faint, glowing mark appeared on Dalria’s chest as she hesitated, then grasped the human’s hand. The young Xaria’s expression shifted—uncertain, then resolute, and finally, alight with something Krava recognized all too well: ambition.

  “Dalria,” Krava hissed, his hands curling into fists. The scene shifted as the scout moved to gain a better vantage. Jennifer was speaking again, her words serpentine, her gestures subtle but powerful. “I warned you…but you want to be the one who takes the glory of killing something I fear… You wish to make me proud. Fool.”

  His stomach twisted as he caught a few phrases through the scout: “…strike her mother…a force deep within the earth…” The rest was lost to the noise of the jungle.

  “All humans are poison,” he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. “Manipulators. Corruptors. They twist everything they touch.”

  Reaching for his flute again, he played another sharp sequence of notes. Through the tendrils of the orange seed, he sent a silent command to the minstrel scout: Continue to observe. Record everything. Do not interfere. The scout’s acknowledgment pulsed faintly in return.

  Krava played the release note and ripped the mask away; the orange pod crumbled to a withered husk in his hands. His chest heaved as he stared into the encroaching storm, night approaching. For a moment, he held onto hope—hope that Dalria might find her way back, might resist the human’s temptations. But it was a faint hope, and one he dared not trust.

  Krava sat motionless as he stared at the dead ritual seed for a long moment, then tucked his flute away and rose. Nine pods remained. Nine more chances to gather the evidence he needed. The ritual seeds would all be recorded to the Plant of Visions by the time he reached the Great Chiefs, he would have enough to prove the danger Elinor and Jennifer posed—not just to his clan, but to the entire valley.

  A reckoning was coming… Just as my ancestors warned the others about the White God’s rise, Elinor’s threat will be greater. Only I can gather the forces needed to deal with her.

  He moved like a shadow through the dense undergrowth, his staff shifting the damp foliage without a sound as the deadly storm struck. The Roxim side of the river had changed, huddling behind rocks, oblivious to his presence. Their splotched green skin told him all he needed to know, and not one danced in the rain with their flames.

  The once-proud clan, who had rivaled his own in battle, had become a husk of what they once were in only a few generations. He could feel it in the way their warriors patrolled—lazily, their formations loose, their discipline lacking in the rage of the wind and thunder.

  They relied too much on their torlim now, the massive reptilian creatures padding through the underbrush with their slitted eyes flicking about. A fine war beast, bred for endurance and aggression, but no replacement for the raw discipline of a true warrior.

  Krava crouched beneath the cover of a thick-rooted tree as a group of Roxim warriors passed mere feet away. Their once-glorious Firewalker Mysticism, the gift of their ancestors, had faded from their lineage. Their blood had mixed too much with the clanless, the wandering tribes who had no loyalty to any banner.

  With that dilution had come weakness. He could see it in their sluggish movements, in the way their senses failed to pierce the mist of the Maw—the scar the Avana left many decades prior frightening many of their patrols to move around it.

  Weakness… All I am greeted with is weakness in this valley. Even in my own clan, I see it in the newer generations. Soft. Relying on the strength of the old guard who purged the valley of its major predators.

  When he was younger, he had faced true Firewalkers in duels, warriors who could conjure living flame into their very strikes, their breath igniting the air in battle. It had been for comradery back then.

  They’d been one of the few ri’bot who could draw the quen’talrat’s attention and survive momentary contact with their fire. They had been terrifying, worthy brothers at arms. Now, they were nothing but a memory of a time he’d longed to relive.

  The Maw’s mist curled around his skin like a living thing, thick and oppressive, rising from the blackened depths of the earth itself. The terrain became treacherous, twisted with hidden pits and jagged stones slick with unseen moisture. It was no wonder the Roxim patrolled so poorly here—one wrong step in the Maw, and a warrior could vanish forever.

  Krava’s senses sharpened, using it as a means to quicken his veins and reignite the fire within him as he moved through the swirling fog, his instincts his only guide. He knew the stories the Roxim chiefs told—knew that some said the mist was alive and could snatch unsuspecting ri’bot into their depths. But he had no time for fear.

  He moved with purpose, slipping past half-asleep guards, scaling the side of a ravine where the old, overgrown hunting paths were, created by the nalvean army during the Fire Wars. When he finally emerged on the other side, the valley behind him, he felt something lift from his chest. He was free of its rot, free of the slow death creeping through every clan. He would return with the storm.

  Descending the cliffs to the lowlands, he saw the marshy forests spread out just before the Grasslands. Ancient and towering, thick with gnarled roots that reached like grasping fingers into the rich soil, they awaited with threats which still lingered from the old world.

  This was a land where the trees stretched toward the sky, their massive trunks covered in vines that dripped with luminescent spores. Creatures darted between the canopy, their chirps and growls blending into the ever-present hum of life.

  Krava moved quickly, weaving through the underbrush with the precision of a predator. Here, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and rich earth, the weight of the jungle pressing against his back. He could feel the energy here—untamed, wild, alive in a way that the valley was not.

  It took days before the trees began to thin, the dense jungle giving way to rolling hills of golden-green grasses swaying beneath the vast sky. Oddly, he’d made it through without encountering any of the old predators that had been run out of the valley by the quen’talrat and creeping shadows inside their holes.

  The transition was stark—the cool shade of the lowlands replaced by the open expanse of the grasslands. Here, the world stretched wide and endless, the horizon a hazy mirage beneath the burning sun. The wind howled across the plains, carrying the scent of distant rain and the musk of creatures unseen.

  Of course, it wasn’t as stark of a change as what was happening in the valley. Throughout his journey, he’d kept track of everything through his silent minstrel spies: Elinor’s colossal growth, the tension rising between the four clans, her challenge to become their Great Chief. He’d also seen Jennifer’s manipulations, Dalria’s fall into madness, and the way she manipulated the Xaltan to become her arm.

  Krava pulled his pouch tighter, his body adjusting to the change in temperature. He was right to move immediately to gain support. Elinor was raising an army of the undead. Now, he just had to find a patrol because he hadn’t walked these plains since his childhood.

  He traveled for weeks, his pace steady but relentless. The land was shockingly empty of settlements, but not of life. He had seen the signs—massive hoofprints embedded in the dirt, gouges in the soil where creatures had grazed.

  Then, one morning, he spotted them.

  A patrol, moving swiftly across the plains, mounted on creatures he had never seen before. They were beasts of muscle and sinew, low to the ground but built for speed, with curved horns that swept back over their heads and thick, plated scales running along their spines. Their strides devoured the earth, their hooves pounding in rhythm as they surged forward.

  The warriors astride them were ri’bot—similar to his kind. Their skin was a deep orange, with markings that spiraled down their arms like the ancient tattoos of his ancestors. Their lineage was clear to him, even from this distance. A split from his own people, a division that had occurred over three hundred years ago.

  They would recognize him.

  Krava raised his staff and waited. It didn’t take long to spot him and thunder his way. A quick exchange, and he was accepted on the back of one of the creatures. Not long after, he arrived at the third city closest to the valley—apparently, he’d missed two others to his south and north.

  Compared to his jungle home, Krava felt small. The city rose before him, a marvel of stone and craft unlike anything in the valley. The Great Clans had not stagnated as they had after the Fire Wars. They had advanced…just as Valdar had tried so hard to push for.

  Towering stone walls enclosed the city, their surfaces etched with intricate carvings of their ri’bot history—his own clan’s ancient history, before the split—each line telling a story of war, conquest, and unity under the Great Chiefs. Beyond the walls, the architecture was a blend of practicality and beauty—angular buildings of smooth stone, reinforced with wooden beams, their rooftops adorned with banners of deep reds and golds.

  The streets were filled with life, ri’bot of all ages moving with purpose, their postures strong, their gazes sharp. Even the youngest among them carried themselves with the bearing of warriors.

  This…is what Valdar wanted. It is here, old friend. You only needed to step outside of the valley to find it and bring it back… You didn’t need to sell yourself to that human of death.

  Torlim, larger and more robust than those of the Roxim, moved through the streets, their riders guiding them with an ease that spoke of years of training. Above, great birds circled—massive creatures, their wingspans equal to a torlim’s length, their riders gripping long, barbed spears. Skyborn warriors, their presence a reminder that the Great Clans did not fear battle on any front.

  I must convince the Great Chiefs… The living versus the dead. They still believe in the Supreme Chiefs. At least…Father said they did. A lot can change in a century…as the valley proves. We must advance before the valley itself turns into The Pits. Flying beasts, though? Where did they find them? It doesn’t look like there are many…but enough to be a threat.

  Krava’s breath hitched as he took it all in. This was what the valley had lost. This was what his people should have become. If only you could have described it like this, old friend, then there would be no dissension. Will you join me if I show you this?

  A warrior guided him through the bustling streets, leading him toward the central keep where the city’s commander awaited. Krava barely noticed the path, his mind caught between admiration and shame.

  How have we fallen so far behind? Could we have become this had I listened to you Valdar? If so…I will not fail you this time. Relying on non-ri’bot is not the way to advance… Humans are dangerous and must be eradicated. They are growing out of control—thriving—under Elinor’s leadership. Soon…there will be nothing left for your people.

  It was the technology that struck him the hardest. It was not the metal of the humans, nor the simple tools of the valley clans. No, this was something refined, something ancient. Bronze gears turned on great machines, mechanisms of pulleys and levers adjusting the flow of water through the city’s aqueducts.

  The soldiers bore weapons with sleek craftsmanship, blades balanced to perfection, shields reinforced with layered metal in a way that spoke of careful engineering.

  And the arts—by the Supreme Chiefs, the arts.

  Murals lined the streets, depicting great battles and legendary Great Chiefs of their past during the Fire Wars when one of the White God’s captains was sent to eliminate them, each piece capturing a moment in history with stunning detail. Statues of past leaders stood tall in the plazas, their visages carved with precision, their stances exuding power.

  Krava exhaled slowly. He had spent so much time focusing on war, on the immediate battle with the Xaltan, Flex, and other threats to the west, that he had forgotten what true greatness looked like.

  He would remind his people.

  The warrior leading him halted before the towering doors of the commander’s hall. They were reinforced with bronze and decorated with intricate filigree, the craftsmanship exquisite.

  “You will be given an audience with City Chief Lekara, Elder Chief of the Komath,” the soldier informed him, his voice firm but respectful. “If she sees it appropriate, then she will fly you to the capital to meet the Great Chiefs. If your warning is true regarding this threat being like unto the White God…then war is upon us once more.”

  Krava grimaced, gripping his staff tightly.

  “I have more than words, young warrior… I will show her exactly what power Empress Elinor holds. A fraction of the forces she commands… And she only grows stronger.”

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