Look at things different

Ryden stood in Gastrar's longhouse, the flickering firelight casting harsh shadows across the room. Gastrar leaned forward in his large wooden throne, his expression twisted with disdain.

"You can't cook food. You can't forge weapons. What can you do?" Gastrar's voice boomed, each word laced with venom.

Ryden chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Uh… I can paint?"

The answer only fueled Gastrar's fury. He stood abruptly, his heavy frame shaking the floor, and kicked Ryden hard in the stomach.

Ryden doubled over, gasping as the air was forced out of his lungs.

"You worthless outsider," Gastrar growled, looming over him. "We feed you, give you shelter, let you into our tribe, and you can't even do anything? Your friends better be here soon, or the girl dies."

With a wave of his hand, Gastrar signaled to the warriors standing nearby. "Teach him a lesson, then throw him in the pens."

The warriors dragged Ryden out of the longhouse, his protests silenced by their firm grips. Gastrar barely glanced at the commotion as he sank back into his throne, ready to revel in his fleeting power. But before he could settle, the doors to the longhouse burst open, and a breathless messenger stumbled inside.

The man's face was pale, his eyes wide with barely contained fear as he dropped to one knee. "Chief Gastrar," he panted, his voice trembling. "The Blood Talons… they're coming. They'll be here in a few days."

Gastrar's face froze, his expression an uneasy blend of anger and dread. For a moment, the room was silent save for the crackling of the hearth. Then, one of the guards standing near the wall spoke up, his tone cautious. "Why not just… give them the girl, Chief? The outsiders would surely be grateful, and it might—"

Gastrar cut him off with a bitter laugh, his voice filled with venom. "Grateful? You think gratitude is worth a damn? No. You don't understand." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he fixed the guard with a piercing glare. "Fear. Fear is the only loyalty that matters. The moment you lose it, you're nothing."

The guard hesitated, but Gastrar didn't stop. His laugh grew harsher, tinged with bitterness. "Look at us. Look at the Blood Talons and the hold they have over us. Do you think we're their allies? Their friends? No. We're their cattle. Their dogs. They take everything—our food, our resources—and leave us barely enough to survive. But it's the only way to keep this tribe alive."

Gastrar stood abruptly, his hands gripping the armrests of his throne as his voice rose. "Do you know what happens to the people the Blood Talons fight? They burn them alive. They slaughter them like animals. And their warriors grow stronger with every drop of blood spilled. Our land is right next to theirs. The moment we stop being useful, what do you think will happen to us?" His words echoed through the longhouse, the desperation behind them unmasked.

The guard opened his mouth to respond but faltered, his face paling under Gastrar's burning gaze. Gastrar's voice dropped to a chilling growl, his rage barely contained. "Get out of my sight," he snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The guard bowed his head and quickly retreated, leaving Gastrar alone with the messenger. The chief sank back into his throne, his hands trembling as he rubbed his temples.

Outside, the warriors wasted no time. They threw Ryden to the ground, their fists and feet striking him relentlessly. Ryden gritted his teeth, his mind swimming in pain, as he tried to shield himself from the worst of the blows. The attacks only stopped when the warriors grew tired.

Bleeding and battered, Ryden was hauled up and dragged through the camp toward a shadowy corner, where makeshift wooden cages bound with rope lined the area. The "pens," as the Stonehoof Tribe called them, were little more than crude prisons. Inside, dozens of people—men, women, and children—sat huddled together, their faces gaunt and hopeless.

Ryden's eyes darted desperately from cage to cage until he spotted a familiar figure—Lucy—huddled in a corner of one of the cages. Her small frame was curled up, her face buried in her knees.

"Lucy!" Ryden shouted, his voice hoarse.

Her head shot up, and her tear-streaked face twisted in a mixture of shock and relief. "Ryden?" she whimpered.

Her silver hair, once radiant, hung limp and matted with soot and grime. One of her green eyes, so vivid and full of life before, was now closed shut, the surrounding skin bruised and swollen, evidence of the abuse she had suffered. The open eye glistened with tears, its emerald hue a stark contrast to the ash smeared across her pale face.

Her body bore the marks of her torment. Bruises mottled her arms and legs, dark purple splotches standing out against her tender skin. Angry red burns trailed up her forearms and neck, some shallow, others raw and angry. Her clothes were tattered and scorched, hanging from her small frame like a thin barrier between her and the cold world around her.

As the warriors dragged him closer to another cage, Ryden twisted free with a burst of strength and stumbled toward Lucy's cage.

"Lucy, it's okay," he said, pressing his hands against the bars. "We're going to get you out of here. I promise."

Tears welled in her eyes as she crawled to the edge of the cage. "Ryden, I thought…" Her voice broke into sobs. "I thought you were dead."

Reaching into his tunic, Ryden pulled out a small carving—a tiny rabbit with sharp teeth—and slipped it through the bars into her trembling hands. "Hold onto this," he whispered. "And wait for the signal. Okay?"

Lucy clutched the carving tightly, nodding as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Before Ryden could say more, the warriors grabbed him again and dragged him to a neighboring cage.

The warriors threw Ryden into the cage and slammed the door shut, securing it with thick ropes. They confiscated his chisel and remaining carvings as he protested loudly.

"Come on, what am I supposed to do in here without them?!" Ryden yelled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You expect me to just sit here and enjoy the view?"

The warriors ignored him, leaving him in the cage as they walked away.

The cage rattled slightly as Ryden shifted closer to Lucy, their adjacent prisons allowing them a rare moment to speak. He leaned against the wooden bars, his voice soft and uncertain. "Lucy… I'll take responsibility for you. I promise, I'll protect you."

Lucy turned her head slowly, her bruised and burned face illuminated faintly by the dying embers of a nearby fire. Her voice was hoarse, her tone laced with bitterness and confusion. "What's… responsibility?"

Ryden hesitated, taken aback by her question. He fumbled for an answer. "It's… It's when you feel like you have to do something because… because your actions caused it. It's—" He stumbled over his words, feeling the weight of what he was trying to say. "It's like… something I did might have made this happen. And because of that, I have to fix it."

Lucy's green eye, the only one that could still open, narrowed as she stared at him. Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with restrained anger and pain. "You… You killed my father?"

Ryden's heart stopped. "No! No, it's not like that—" he stammered, raising his hands as if to ward off the accusation. "Lucy, I didn't—"

But Lucy's memories flooded back, fragmentary yet vivid. Her father's voice yelling out, her fellow tribesmen's screams, the Blood Talon warriors dragging her family away. One of them had barked a cold command: "Bury her." Then came the ash, heavy and suffocating, thrown over her like a shroud. And then, darkness. The heat. The unbearable, searing heat. She had screamed until her voice gave out, her world reduced to burning suffocation and the echoing thought of those she loved.

Tears welled in her remaining eye, spilling down her ash-streaked face. "They buried me alive," she whispered, her voice shaking. "It was so hot. I couldn't breathe. I thought about everyone—I thought about my brother, my mom, my father, and even you. But you…" Her voice cracked as she locked eyes with Ryden, rage and fear swirling in her gaze. "You did this to me."

Ryden flinched as though struck. "Lucy, no! I—I didn't—" His words faltered, his throat tightening. He wanted to protest, to say it wasn't him, but he couldn't. The weight of her accusation settled heavily on his chest because deep inside, he knew.

He hadn't buried her himself. But the weapons they used, the strength the Blood Talons gained through their spirits and titles, the tools that had fueled their conquest—they had all started with him. The advancements he, Rice, and Darius had unleashed into this world. They had given the tribes the power to rise, to fight, to destroy.

Lucy's tear-streaked face twisted in anguish. "I don't want your responsibility!" she cried, her voice breaking into a sob. "I want my dad back. I want my family back. I want my tribe back!" She buried her face in her hands, her small frame shaking with the force of her grief.

Ryden reached out instinctively but froze, his hand hovering over the wooden bars between them. He wanted to comfort her, to say something that could ease her pain, but the words wouldn't come. His chest ached as he watched her cry, the truth he couldn't deny gnawing at him like a living thing.

In that moment, Ryden felt a chasm open between them, one that no words or promises could bridge. All he could do was sit there, his hand still outstretched, as her sobs echoed in the oppressive silence