Skypeak

Beyond the vast expanse of the Deepwood Forest lies the Stonereach Mountain, its jagged peaks piercing the clouds like the fangs of a great beast.

The mountain range stretches endlessly, cloaked in perpetual mist that hides its secrets from prying eyes.

On the western edge of these mountains stands the Iron Fortress Town, it is a bastion of discipline and strength, shielding the Western Continent from the untamed wilds of the South.

Though it serves as a vital military outpost, the Iron Fortress Town is far removed from the heart of Stonereach.

Even the rank three Silver Knights who serve as commanders within its walls dare not venture too far into the mountains without a compelling reason.

The knights of the Iron Fortress are a formidable force, each bearing the mark of their station. Rank one Copper Knights, untested but eager, form the backbone of the garrison.

Rank two Bronze Plate Knights stand as seasoned veterans, their every movement showing off years of rigorous training.

Above them, the rank three Silver Knights command with authority, their skills honed to perfection. Yet even these battle-hardened warriors heard rumors about the Stonereach Mountain, of the savage warriors who live within the mists.

In the heart of the Stonereach Mountains dwells the Skypeak Tribe, a people as rugged as the cliffs they call home.

Isolated from the outside world, they are a mystery to most, their existence spoken of only in tales told by wandering merchants or deserters who have dared to escape into the wilds.

The Skypeak Tribe has no written history, for their knowledge is passed down through stories carved into stone and recited under the light of the moon.

Though they shun outside contact, the tribe unknowingly practices Knight Battle Arts, refined to suit their harsh way of life.

Their arts focus on the body as the ultimate weapon, forged through pain and perseverance.

They bathe in medicinal pools fed by the natural springs of Stonereach, their waters laced with minerals said to rejuvenate the body and harden the spirit.

Their warriors hunt the wild beasts of the mountains, extracting their essence to strengthen their own Ki and toughen their flesh.

The tribe's modest origins are tied to legend though. It is said that centuries ago, an exiled knight of the Western Continent fled to the mountains, his name lost to time. With no armor or weapons, he survived by taming the wilds and mastering his body.

He passed his teachings to the mountain folk, who refined them over generations.

Their techniques lack the precision of the knights from the fortress, but their raw power and resilience rival even the most disciplined Battle Ki warriors.

To this day, the Skypeak Tribe remains secluded, like a ghostly presence within the misty peaks of Stonereach.

The knights of the Iron Fortress keep their distance, for though the tribe has never launched an attack, neither have they shown hospitality to outsiders.

Clearly There is an unspoken truce, a natural balance between the military might of the fortress and the primal strength of the tribe.

…

The moon hung high over the Stonereach Mountains, its pale light mingling with the flicker of torches that illuminated the village square of the Skypeak Tribe.

The rhythmic beat of drums reverberated through the air, setting the pace for the youth of the tribe as they performed the ceremonial Skyfire Dance.

Sergei, tall and broad-shouldered, moved with precision and strength, his every step eliciting cheers from the gathered crowd.

Beside him, the other youths matched his movements, their faces painted with streaks of red and black, the colors of their ancestors.

Ilya stood at the front of the cheering women, her gaze fixed on Sergei. Her soft features, highlighted by the glow of the flames, were impossible to miss. She wore a necklace made of polished beast fangs, each one a mark of the tribe's savage beauty.

As the ceremonial dance ended, the chieftain, a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard, stepped onto the raised platform. His deep voice carried over the crowd, calling for silence.

"Today, we celebrate our strength, our unity, and the bond we share with the mountains that protect us," he began, his voice like thunder.

"The youth of our tribe have performed their dance, showing the world that the blood of the Skypeak runs strong in our veins." He gave a nod toward Sergei and the others, who stood in respectful silence. "Now, let us enjoy the feast!"

As the speech concluded, Sergei straightened and tapped his closed fist twice against his chest, bowing slightly.

This was the tribe's traditional greeting and a show of respect. Ilya responded with a graceful motion, pressing both palms together and raising them to her forehead—a gesture reserved for close friends or respected individuals.

"You danced well tonight, Sergei," Ilya said, stepping forward as the crowd began to disperse. Her voice was warm, though quiet enough not to draw unnecessary attention.

"Thank you, Ilya," Sergei replied, his deep voice carrying a calm confidence. "It's not often we get to celebrate like this. You seem to enjoy these festivals more than anyone else."

A faint blush touched her cheeks. "How could I not? The Skyfire Festival is when we honor our ancestors. And… the dance was particularly lively this year." Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.

Sergei smiled faintly but didn't press her meaning. "The drums always awaken something in us. It's hard not to get carried away. But," he added, tilting his head slightly, "I noticed you cheering the loudest."

Ilya laughed, the sound like a soft bell amid the fading chatter. "Perhaps I was. Is it wrong to support someone who deserves it?"

Unknown to them as they spoke, another figure stood some distance away, shrouded in the darkness near the edge of the square.

Vladimir, the chieftain's son, clenched his jaw as he watched the exchange.

His piercing gaze flicked between Sergei and Ilya, a storm of emotions brewing behind his stern expression.

Behind him, a group of his closest friends approached, their voices low but carrying enough for Vladimir to hear.

One of them, a lanky youth with a scar across his cheek, chuckled. "Look at Sergei, stealing the attention again. It's no wonder the women can't take their eyes off him."

Another, a broader boy with arms like tree trunks, scoffed. "Attention? Hah! Just because he can dance doesn't mean he's better than us. The tribe values strength, not fancy footwork."

"But you can't deny he's got skill," the scarred youth countered, a sly grin spreading across his face.

"And Ilya… she's practically glowing when she looks at him. Do you think they've been meeting in secret? I heard someone saw them talking by the river last moon."

Vladimir's hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white. "Enough," he growled, his voice low but sharp. His friends immediately fell silent, exchanging wary glances.

One of them, trying to lighten the mood, muttered, "Maybe Sergei's just lucky. But luck runs out, doesn't it, Vladimir?"

Vladimir didn't respond, his gaze locked on Sergei's relaxed stance and Ilya's bright smile. The sight was like a blade twisting in his chest.

Meanwhile, Sergei, oblivious to the growing tension, continued his conversation with Ilya.

"You should be careful with your words," Ilya teased, folding her arms. "People might start to think you're charming when you're just being polite."

Sergei chuckled, his voice like a low rumble. "Charming? That doesn't sound like me. I'm just stating the truth."

"You're terrible at taking compliments," she said with a mock sigh, though her smile never wavered.

As the drums faded into silence and the night grew quieter, Vladimir turned sharply, his friends following close behind. Though his expression was calm, the storm in his heart raged.

"Sergei," he muttered under his breath, the name like venom on his tongue.

…

As the festival's energy waned, the laughter and music slowly gave way to the quiet of the night.

Sergei had already returned to his humble hut near the outskirts of the village, where the darkness of the forest loomed like a silent guardian.

He was seated on a log outside, sharpening a crude hunting knife with slow, deliberate strokes.

The rhythm of stone against metal was soothing, a familiar sound that matched the stillness of the night.

Crunch!

The faint crunch of footsteps on gravel drew his attention. Sergei looked up to see Vladimir emerging from the darkness, his broad frame outlined by the pale light of the moon.

His expression was neutral, but the stiffness in his posture betrayed his intent.

"Vladimir," Sergei greeted calmly, setting his blade aside. He tapped his chest twice in the traditional manner, a gesture of respect.

"What brings you here so late? Shouldn't you be celebrating with the others?"

Vladimir returned the greeting half-heartedly, his eyes narrowing. "There's something I need to say, Sergei. And I'd rather say it now than let it fester."

Sergei tilted his head slightly, sensing the weight behind Vladimir's words.

"I'm listening."

Vladimir stepped closer, his shadow falling over Sergei.

"Stay away from Ilya," he said, his tone steady but cold.

"I've decided to marry her. It's only right—our families are close, and the tribe needs strong leaders to carry on its traditions. Ilya will be my wife."

Sergei's lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes betrayed nothing.

"Is that so? I wasn't aware you'd already made the decision for her."

"She'll agree," Vladimir snapped, his calm façade cracking.

 "And even if she doesn't yet, she will in time. You've been speaking with her too freely, Sergei. It's disrespectful."

Sergei leaned back slightly, crossing his arms.

"Disrespectful? I don't recall doing anything improper. But if my presence bothers you, I'll stay out of her way."

The words were placating, but the tone carried a subtle edge. Vladimir wasn't convinced. His fists clenched at his sides, and his voice dropped lower.

 "Don't think I can't see through you, Sergei. You say one thing, but your eyes tell another story. If you think you can take her from me, you're mistaken."

Sergei stood, meeting Vladimir's gaze evenly. Though he was calm, there was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself.

'The arrogance of the strong… does he think he can decide everything?'

But Sergei knew better than to openly challenge the chieftain's son. Not yet.

 "You've said what you came to say. I understand. But let me remind you, Vladimir—respect goes both ways."

For a moment, the two stood in tense silence, the weight of their words hovering in the air. Then Vladimir turned abruptly, his cape of wolf pelts swaying as he stormed off into the night.

"Things will get messy," he murmured under his breath. "But if he thinks I'll back down that easily… he's mistaken."

Far off in the distance, a howl was heard through the mountains, as if the night itself were warning Sergei of the storm to come.