Chapter 17

Nightfall betides, and the darkness shrouds the landscape like a blanket. The pathways of the compound are lit with standing fire torches, posted at spaced intervals. The entire compound gathers for dinner, waiting to be entertained by the tribe's storyteller.

The Chieftain sits on a stone throne, bulky and elevated on a rock platform with a bed of vibrant flowers laid at his feet. The Chieftain is covered in crimson tattoos from the brink of his head until his monstrous feet. I see now why the throne is so hefty because the Chieftain himself is huge, a sign of his power. Beefy hands set on the arms of the throne, every inch of him etched with marks of royalty.

Before the throne—at a safe distance—a blazing bonfire roars into the night, crackling, snapping, its flaming fingers reaching for the stars, burning tendrils fluttering. The bonfire itself is massive, the logs of wood placed in a triangular shape, flames nearly aligned with the Chieftain's head. Beyond the bonfire, rows upon rows of the Oromians sit on the ground, children and elders alike, feast on their meal. I can see as many as my vision permits, most of them melt into the darkness.

As the Herems and I are esteemed guests. We get to sit on the ground, but on the right-side of the Chieftain, right before the wild blaze. Our guards stand with some of the other Oromian soldiers. Nine of them behind us and the other nine opposite us on the margins.

I sit beside Oam. He's the closest to the Chieftain and Solaris is at my other flank. In my hands is a frightening bowl of soup, its ingredients are indistinguishable. A sludgy slop, a mossy green with what appears to be lumps of purple slugs that are awfully bloated—and I swear one of them moved. My cheeks inflate like balloons, my appetite obliterated as I try to keep the upheaval from coming up. Ah, now I foresee my death in The Vasilias Imperii. I will perish from starvation.

"This is revolting."

I gladly look away from the stomach-churning soup, looking past Solaris.

"I am a Herem. A highborn, the successor of my Regnum. And I am forced to sit on this dusty rock like an animal. And what in the gods is this petrifying dish?" Brennon mutters with boundless indignation, anger heating his words. His silver tinted skin aflame with aggravation. Firelight casting copper tones in his short hair. "Am I to live less than a peasant?"

"Brennon," Solaris says reproachfully and pointedly nods his head at the oblivious Oromians wolfing down their soup with no utensils of any kind. Merely plucking the slug things by hand and sucking it into their mouths as the blubbering ends wiggle in protest.

"Oh please," he dismisses harshly. "It is not like the savages can hear me. I sincerely hope this is not High King Urus's brilliant plan to root out the worthy among us. I do not see the purpose of mucking about in filth." His gaze, swift and sharp, to stab me with a look of condescension. "Although I am sure Aurora can educate us about that. I'm sure she feels right at home."

Brennon, just another pompous nobleman. Herem Brennon is from the Kingdom of Dawegelia. And their Regnum is responsible for regulating trade and workers to erect the fleets for their king's navy with both wood and builders. Out of nowhere, a hooded figure peels from the shadows and moves to stand before the Chieftain. His back is towards him but pivoted so that he doesn't block him fully. He stands in front of the bonfire and overlooks the seated audience, towering over us.

I presume he's the storyteller.

Oam shifts on his knees so that his torso faces us, his robe pooling around him. "That is Msikie, the legend bearer. He regales the myths of old and often relays divinations from the Augur, who is the mouth of our god. And the Chieftain's wife," Oam informs. "She and the other spiritual leaders left for the mountains hours before your arrival, to go and beg to our deity."

"Beg for what?" Vince asks.

"Mercy," he says simply.

Msikie draws back his hood to reveal his face. Three oily black stripes streak down cheek like tears running down to the jawline.

"N'abalị a, mga-ekwu okwu banyere amụma ahụ." He has a volcanic voice, loaded with vigour that fills the cool night air with his sonorous, rumbling.

"Today, he's going to regale the legend of a prophecy long foretold," Oam translates.

"Mga-amalite!"

He claps his hands together, and it echoes a thunderous boom—the bonfire flares—the tendrils lash out—I shrink away instinctively. Msikie begins to mutter a spate of dark words beneath his breath. Suddenly white dominates his eyes, consuming all colour. Then his eyes burst into a white glow. Luminous light fills the six stripes on his cheeks, filling them like a flood of water in a barren riverbed. He outstretches a hand towards the fire, fingers sprawled. He stands before it the way a witch stands before her cauldron. My gaze glides up the flaming tendrils that rise higher, twisting into an inferno and then it drops. It sinks and the flames ripple out the way water does when a heavy stone is dropped inside.

I look closer—shapes begin to form, shapes into figures, and a thousand tongues of fire speak it to life.

"Ogologo oge gara aga n'oge nke ọbụbụeze."

"Long ago in the Age of Sovereignty," Oam interprets. Msikie continues, all focus on him, spellbound by his words. Whereas we listen to the translated version.

"There was once a time of great peace in the realm. People thrived, and all lands flourished because, even though they were many. They operated as one, unified."

Dancing figures materialise on the fingertips of the fire, little smouldering people frolicking in the flames. Melodious sounds of laughing and cheering emanate from the embers that burn with the shared passion of the little people. Radiating warmth and happiness.

"But the Great Realm War destroyed that great peace. For there is a balance that governs the laws of the universe. Light and dark, good and evil, peace and war. All beings represent that scale of life. For when there is peace, there will be those who seek to oppose it."

With his hand outstretched, Msikie clenches his fist.

The cheerful people droop into despondency, thawing into the flames.

"The gluttony of those who perished, who sought for more power. They fractured the realm of Urium. It was devastated by the war, the division. And the corrupted hearts of those who had the might of thousands of souls behind their swords."

The blaze thunders with rage, and the fire splits in half. They both shoot up to the sky to the point that I have to incline my head. Two fire giants take form, armed in fiery battle armour and a full-face helmet, cavorting in a death dance. A flaming sword in each of their hands as they fight each other, swords silently clashing together. But the fire amplifies the bellows of a war cry.

"The Great Realm War plundered people of their land, some their freedom and cost us all dearly. People were forced to live in fear and shame because of their differences that were loathed by others, species that thought themselves superior."

The one flaming giant runs his adversary with a blade through his chest. He goes limp before erupting into a spectacle of sparks like fireworks. The lone giant pounds a victorious fist to the heavens, emblazoned by an outline of a crown that emerges on his head.

"The Great Realm War was long foretold, as is what comes next. The ears of the gods have bled from the weeping of the oppressed. Their anger is tempted by the evil and depravity of those who hold power."

The fire giant gradually dissolves into nothingness. The flames swirl and the fiery scene changes into a depiction of innumerable people, hunched over mournfully. A haunting reprise of wails merges into a sorrowful ballad of the fallen.

"For this, no one will be spared. The realm will be punished, and the lands will be cleansed by the blood of a million souls. Ten thousand will fall one night, and a hundred thousand more will have fallen by the second dawn. And that time has come; a time where kings will fall, and evil will rise. The reckoning is upon us."

The blaze bursts into a merciless inferno of wrath, devouring the people and their dread-drilling screams shatter the night sky as the firestorm explodes and eviscerates them all. The tempest is hushed into stillness, followed by a spectral caterwaul that tears through the atmosphere.

***

After that... unnerving narration, not quite like the wholesome tales Elrin would regale me. The Chieftain is satisfied and the rest of the Oromians full of both entertainment and what passes for food. They release us to our new quarters for a time. The Herems are whisked to one side of the compound, and I am hauled down the other. Escorted to one of the sleeping huts to share with other females, virgins like myself.

Seated on a tattered mat for a bed, on solid rock, with nothing to keep me warm. Fortunately, I don't need it. The night air is rather impartial, neither warm, neither cold. My legs are folded, head and back resting against dry clay brick.

I cannot sleep. I know it shouldn't bother me, but it does. The prophecy brought by their deity. It haunts me still. Thoughts clamour in my mind, only driving sleep further away from me. Which is not what I need. I need my full strength for whatever will unfold tomorrow; my energy reserve has already halved because of the lack of nourishment to replenish me. As one can imagine, I couldn't bring myself to eat that bowl of mushy, living slugs. The choice to starve was the only appetising alternative.

Hopefully, at the hunt tomorrow. I can get a good kill and feast on my triumph.

My gaze lowers to the slumbering, feminine figures all laid down. Silence hums with their collective breathing. Shadows draped over them, faces unseen. The only source of light is the orangey glow reflecting slantwise on the ground outside the doorway from a nearby fire torch that flickers and flares.

All of us are tightly packed inside, like freight crates in an airship's cargo bay. On wakeful nights like this, I would be outside, meandering through the fields. Beholding a view that overlooks the entire Prime Province that glistens under the stars, with beads of lights that fleck the dark expanse. Nostalgia is like a gloom as black as this night that saddens my spirit. My heart is but a heavyweight in my chest.

 I shake my head, warding off the deluge of midnight emotions.

I grab my boots, shoving them on and lacing them back up. After, I scramble to full height, snatching up my coat, which I was using as an improvised pillow. I unfurl it and slide my arms through the long sleeves, propping out the collar as I move forward.

I tiptoe through the spotted gaps between a maze of arms, hands, and legs, as if to avoid pitfalls. Shortly, I safely make it to the other side, breezing through the doorway. I walk down the narrow footpath and onto the main pathway of the compound.

The compound is meticulously segregated into four key sections, mirroring the tribe's structured way of life. At the heart of this layout, flanking the central axis, lie the sleeping huts. On one side, a cluster of huts houses the young females, their interiors adorned with personal keepsakes and woven mats that add a touch of warmth and individuality. The air within is filled with the comforting scents of dried herbs and wood smoke, creating an atmosphere of nurturing and care. Opposite these, another group of huts accommodates the young males.

Beyond these quarters, the remaining sleeping huts are allocated to parents and their infants.

At the pinnacle of the compound stands the Chieftain's dwelling, a majestic structure that commands respect and reverence. This hut, unlike any other, stands alone, symbolizing the Chieftain's paramount status within the tribe. Its entrance is flanked by carved totems, guardians of tradition and authority. The interior is a repository of the tribe's history, with ancient artifacts and ceremonial regalia displayed with pride.

The only recreational structures within the compound are communal in nature, fostering a sense of unity and shared purpose. At the center of the village lies a grand bonfire, a place where the tribe gathers for evening meals and storytelling.

At the foot of the compound, a lounge of stone seats is meticulously arranged in a ring, encircling a communal fire pit. This gathering place serves as the social hub of the village, where discussions, debates, and celebrations unfold. The stone seats, worn smooth by generations of use, stand as silent witnesses to the ebb and flow of tribal life. The communal fire pit at the center is both a hearth and a beacon, drawing the tribe together in moments of collective joy and contemplation.

 I wander down the wide pathway, flanked by the string of round huts. 

My sensors serrate, on high alert. In my periphery, I can see a few patrolling Oromian soldiers and even a few of our guards. My coat is completely open, daggers exposed but concealed enough by the cover of night, allowing wafts of wind to rustle the hem, too light to cause it to billow.

This is nice, calming, just what I needed—the hair on the back of my neck bristles with sudden alarm. In an instant, an overwhelming presence crashes down, enveloping me in its formidable intensity. A great shadow looming. The shadow grows in size, closer and closer to me. Instincts override my rationality—I seize my one dagger and in the same breath, I spin around. My hand flashes to a thick throat; the blade inches from the skin. I look up. The darkness blinks, staring down at me with an indecipherable look.

My heart flips over.

I sheathe the dagger.

His eyes examine me from top to bottom, forever infuriating how he masters such cold stoicism. Under his gaze, I'm inundated by uneasiness, a sense of childish insecurity, constantly resisting the urge to look away. On its own volition, my hand lifts to inspect my hair. Locks of it straggle out of its bounds, dry and tangled, already feeling like a ringerd's nest.

"Trouble sleeping, Hera?" Mock filling his tone. "I'm sure this experience is not so difficult for one of your calibre." He looks ahead of me, brushing past me like I'm nothing.

His blatant disregard elicits a kick of pride, rousing my anger.

Anger mounts within, like a well bank of borrowed verve. I whirl around, marching towards him with long, stomping strides. The ends of my coat struggle to keep up.

"I'd expect that kind of ridicule from those haughty Herems, but not from you," I utter, mustering all the loathing I can, to add, "Primus,"

Primus Kelan frees a scant laugh, short and scathing. "The notion that you ever harbored any expectations of me is rather amusing. You do not even warrant a moment's consideration."

A frown screws up my face into a taut scowl. How dare he!

"You're just the same." Gritted teeth compress my words. Outrage surges through me like a tidal wave, a violent tempest of fury crashing against the walls of my tightly wound restraint. "Just another title-tall bastard who thinks those below are inferior? What upsets you more, my toil or my tits?"

Without warning, he wheels on me fast and abruptly, I flinch back at the hostility.

"The grievance I bear has nothing to do with neither your womanhood nor your livelihood. My resentment is reserved for you alone and for all that you embody."

A nameless ache needles my heart.

He steps forward and moves to tower over me intimidatingly. And it works all too well.

"I have a problem with your presence here." Aggression frays his voice. "Do you honestly think that the Trials are only composed of endeavours of diplomacy? This is not even the start of phase one. The Trials will test you more than you know, more than you ever thought possible. Only before death do you truly come to realise who you are."

His eyes burn with raw intensity. Despite the moonlight that shines on his rear, his face absorbs it into his skin, eddying in the dark pools of his eyes. Shadows crest the peak of his cheekbones, determined to remain dark.

"The Herems, despite their vile nature, possess education extending far beyond mere warcraft. The true battleground lies not only in the clamor of combat but within the halls of governance, war councils, and negotiations with foreign dignitaries. The Herems are well-versed in the intricacies of statecraft, a training ground for minds engaged in the complex affairs of state. As for you, a mere criminal enforcer, a merchman. I fail to see what value or virtue you could possibly contribute. You embody everything that is fundamentally wrong with our world."

The ache in my heart augments to an agony that equates to when my father found out who I worked for. The shame. I thought nothing could match that soul-straining burden, but his scrutiny could dissolve anyone's confidence.

"The High King knows of my origins," I point out as steadily as I can. "He didn't spurn me for it, but you do?"

"He knows you are affiliated," he corrects. "He doesn't know how deep. I have seen your markings, merchman. The rank you hold in service of a man devoid of morals diminishes you even further beneath him."

 My vision blurs, tinged with red, as an overwhelming urge to unleash this seething anger threatened to consume me. A primal, all-encompassing fury, a maelstrom of indignation and rage that demands its release.

"Tell me, how many have you led to their deaths? How many have you tortured?"

"Those who died at my hand deserved no less," I say with shocking calm. "Seventeen men, I twisted and bent in ways that would make my father disown me if he saw. Speak ill of me again, Primus, and that number will be eighteen."

I turn away, my steps scorching, both anger and anguish a chemical chaos burning through my insides. I barely know him and yet his words carry such weight over me, with the power to either build or destroy. But I will not be put down by any of them or whatever dangers I will face in the Trials, as I'm so obstinately reminded of.

Many believe I do not belong here.

I will show them all why I do.