Those were the days

Chaos erupted within the Stone Hoof encampment as the blaring horn sent its people into a frenzy. Warriors scrambled to arm themselves, their hurried footsteps kicking up dust that swirled in the oppressive air. Shouts rang out as supplies were gathered, barricades reinforced, and civilians herded toward the inner sanctums of the camp. In the background, Gastrar's voice boomed with authority, barking out orders to his warriors.

"Hold the gates! Get every able hand armed—NOW!"

Ryden, clutching the bars of his cage, strained to see through the commotion. He could barely make out Gastrar near the encampment's central fire, flanked by his lieutenants. His hulking figure gestured wildly as he directed the defense. The clinking of weapons being distributed reached Ryden's ears, accompanied by the steady thud of warriors assembling at the outer fortifications—a ramshackle wall of wooden spikes and packed earth.

Then, in the distance, he saw something that made his heart drop into the abyss: the Blood Talon warriors.

They marched with an unnatural rhythm, their steps synchronized as if moving to an unseen drumbeat. Each warrior was clad in piecemeal armor of dark leather, their bodies streaked with red war paint that seemed to glow faintly, as if alive with malevolent energy. The blood-red aura emanating from their forms shimmered like heatwaves, distorting the air around them. Their faces were a mixture of rage and grim determination, their eyes alight with the promise of violence.

At their forefront walked Eris, chief of the Blood Talon clan.

Eris was a vision of terrifying authority. Her jet-black hair hung in uneven strands that framed her face like a dark halo, accentuating the sharpness of her cheekbones and the dangerous curve of her lips. Her crimson eyes burned with malice, their intensity cutting through the dust and haze of the battlefield like twin daggers. The jagged streaks of blood-red paint that marked her pale skin gave her an almost otherworldly appearance, as though she were a spirit of vengeance rather than a flesh-and-blood woman.

Her armor was crafted from blackened bone and reinforced leather, adorned with gruesome trophies: skull fragments, clawed hands, and the string of pristine teeth that hung around her neck. Each trophy was a testament to her dominance, a grim warning to her enemies. A wickedly sharp stone knife spun effortlessly in her slender hand, its edge gleaming with the polish of constant use. Though her frame was slight, her every movement radiated a raw, lethal power that kept her warriors in line without a single word.

Behind her, her warriors advanced in silence, their murderous red auras flickering and pulsating like living flames. Their weapons—crudely forged but brutally effective—caught the light as they moved. Some carried jagged axes, others long spears tipped with barbed heads. These were not ordinary fighters; their auras hinted at a bond with malevolent spirits, their power amplified by whatever dark force Eris commanded.

Eris approached the Stone Hoof fortifications with measured steps, her stone knife spinning lazily in her fingers. As she neared, Gastrar's commanding demeanor seemed to shrink. The towering leader of the Stone Hoof clan visibly stiffened, his shoulders straightening as he stepped out to greet her. His head dipped slightly—a reluctant but unmistakable gesture of deference.

"Chief Eris," Gastrar said, his voice lacking its usual bark. "To what do we owe the honor?"

Eris stopped a few paces from him, her eyes raking over him with the cool detachment of a predator assessing its prey. She tilted her head slightly, a predatory smile curling her lips. "Supplies," she said, her voice smooth but dripping with menace. "And your captives. I've come to inspect them."

Gastrar hesitated, the muscles in his jaw clenching. "Of course," he said quickly, forcing a gruff nod. "We'll provide whatever you need." He turned and motioned for her to follow. "This way."

Eris followed Gastrar through the encampment, her warriors flanking her like a swarm of shadows. As they passed, the Stone Hoof tribespeople averted their eyes, their movements hurried and submissive. The mere presence of the Blood Talons seemed to sap the camp of its remaining defiance.

At the pens, Gastrar gestured toward the rows of makeshift wooden cages. The captives inside shrank back as Eris's gaze swept over them, her crimson eyes cold and calculating. Their faces twisted with anger and fear, recognizing her as the source of their suffering. Murmurs of hatred rippled through the prisoners, but none dared speak loud enough for her to hear.

Ryden watched Eris intently, his body tense. He could feel the hatred radiating from the other captives, and he shared it. This was the woman responsible for razing tribes, slaughtering innocents, and imprisoning anyone who couldn't flee fast enough.

But Eris's expression betrayed no concern for their rage. If anything, she seemed amused, her lips twitching into a faint smirk as her eyes lingered on their scowling faces. She strode slowly along the cages, pausing occasionally to inspect the prisoners as though she were surveying livestock.

Then her gaze landed on Lucy.

The small girl had done her best to hide, curling into a corner of the cage with her arms wrapped around her knees. But Eris's sharp eyes missed nothing. She stopped, the smirk fading as her expression shifted to one of cold interest. With a slight motion of her hand, she signaled to one of her warriors.

"Bring her forward," Eris commanded.

"No!" Ryden shouted, his voice cracking as he lunged toward the bars of his cage. The warrior ignored him, unlatching the door to Lucy's cage and reaching for the terrified girl.

Lucy whimpered, clutching the small carving Ryden had given her, as the warrior's hand closed around her arm and dragged her toward Eris.