Talking to you

The three sat inside the dimly lit tent, the weight of the day's events pressing heavily upon them. The space was cramped, the air thick with the earthy scent of leather and damp straw. Just outside, a warrior stood guard, his shadow shifting faintly as the firelight flickered against the tent's fabric.

Rice let out a long sigh, sinking onto one of the simple mats provided. "Finally," he said, running a hand through his messy hair. "I thought we'd never get a moment to breathe."

But Ryden didn't share his relief. His shoulders were tense, and his brows furrowed deeply as he stared at the ground, his fingers absently tracing patterns in the dirt.

"You should rest," Darius said quietly, his voice steady but firm. "There's nothing we can do right now, and you're not helping anyone by running yourself into the ground."

Ryden didn't respond at first, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then, after a long pause, he spoke, his tone low and heavy with guilt. "Those warriors that attacked the Greyleaf Tribe," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Those auras. The fire. That wasn't just some natural phenomenon."

Darius frowned, leaning forward. "What are you saying?"

Ryden's eyes lifted, dark with anguish. "That was the power of titles. The manipulation of elements? That was the power of spirits." He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "We did this. Fennrick, the Greyleaf Tribe… we killed them."

Rice sat up, his expression startled. "We didn't kill anyone," he said quickly, his tone defensive. "That wasn't us—"

"It was us!" Ryden snapped, cutting him off. His voice rose, though it still carried a tremor of grief. "If we hadn't used the Akashic page and codex so rashly, if we'd actually stopped to think about the changes we were making to this world, maybe—just maybe—they would still be alive!"

Rice's face hardened, and his posture straightened. "Are you blaming me?" he shot back, his voice tinged with anger. "We're here for one reason, Ryden, and I think I need to remind you of what that is."

Ryden's expression darkened further, and his voice lowered, cold and accusatory. "Do the deaths mean nothing to you? Did you feel nothing seeing the charred remains of those people—of Fennrick—of your so-called friends?"

Rice shook his head "are you really going to blame yourself for the misuse of an invention?, Did the person who invented the gun think he killed everyone who died from gunshots?"

Ryden responded his voice getting louder

"the person who invented the atomic bomb thought he was responsible"

"We aren't creating the atomic bomb here"

Ryden responded quickly "but we're getting close, whats next? world ending magic? skills that could split the sky in half?"

Before Rice could respond, Darius's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. "Enough," he said sharply, raising his voice for the first time.

Both Ryden and Rice turned to him, startled by the force of his tone.

Darius's jaw was set, his eyes steely as he stared at them. "We can argue about ethics, blame, and responsibility later," he said, his voice firm but calm. "Right now, we have a more immediate problem to deal with."

He gestured toward the tent flap, where the shadow of the watchful warrior stood unmoving. "How to get out of this shithole," Darius said bluntly.

The tension between Ryden and Rice didn't vanish, but they both nodded reluctantly,

As the faint light of dawn began to filter through the thin tent walls, the trio sat huddled together in tense conversation. The exhaustion from the previous day had done little to dull their sharp realization: they were in a precarious situation, and the stakes couldn't be higher.

The next morning, the trio was escorted from their tent under the watchful eyes of several heavily armed Stonehorn warriors. The rising sun bathed the encampment in a pale light, highlighting the rough-hewn walls and the grim faces of the tribe's inhabitants.

Workers shuffled about, their expressions weary and downtrodden as they carried out tasks under the watchful gaze of warriors. Children peeked out from behind makeshift shelters, their eyes filled with curiosity and fear.

The trio was led to the longhouse, where Chief Gastrar sat in his usual place of dominance. The firelight glinted off the animal trophies and bone trinkets adorning his furs, his sharp eyes gleaming with calculation as he looked over the outsiders.

Gastrar's smirk widened as they approached. "Outsiders," he rumbled, his voice thick with self-satisfaction. "It's time we had a proper talk."

Before Gastrar could continue, Ryden stepped forward, his voice filled with quiet urgency. "What about Lucy? How is she?"

Gastrar leaned back, steepling his fingers. "She'll live," he said, his tone casual, but his grin was cruel. "I've assigned my best healers to watch over her."

The trio froze as Gastrar's words sank in, the unspoken implication as clear as the malicious glint in his eyes. The girl wasn't just a patient—she was leverage, a captive to ensure their compliance.

The trio exchanged tense glances, their suspicions confirmed.

"In the meantime," Gastrar continued, leaning forward and fixing his piercing gaze on Darius, "I have a task for you. I need more of those weapons of yours."

Darius's hand instinctively tightened around the sack of bronze tools, but he forced his expression to remain neutral.

Gastrar's tone hardened as he added, "The Blood Talon Tribe is encroaching on our territory, and we must be ready. What do you say?" His smile remained fixed, but his eyes burned with a warning: You can't say no.

Ryden stepped forward again, his voice firm. "Let us see Lucy first."

Gastrar let out a barking laugh, loud and mocking. "No," he said bluntly. "But perhaps—" he paused for effect, "perhaps—once you've produced the first batch of weapons."

Darius took a step forward, his voice calm but firm. "We'll need proper materials to make them."

Gastrar's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a glint of impatience. "Then find them," he snapped, his voice hard. "Or something… unfortunate might happen to your precious girl."

Ryden raised his hand, "ill stay, I can do other things aside from making weapons"

The chief leaned back letting out a chuckle

"fine, I'll give you one of my warriors as "protection""

"As for you two",

Gastrar looked at Rice and Darius, then dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "You have two weeks to make me a batch of those weapons. No more. Now get out of my sight."

The Rice and Darius were marched to the gates, their presence treated as an inconvenience now that Gastrar had issued his orders. The guards shoved them roughly outside the fortifications, the heavy wooden gates slamming shut behind them.

Darius and Rice stood in the dusty plains outside, the rising sun casting long shadows over their determined faces.

Rice broke the silence first, adjusting his pack with a sigh. "Alright," he muttered. "guess we better get to work"

Darius nodded, his voice calm but resolute. "two weeks. Let's make it count."