Roots of the Claw

Chapter 23: Roots of the Claw

The outskirts of Ironwood Grove came into view like a relief carved into the haze—tall palisades of ironwood trunks, smoke trails from forge stacks, and the distant silhouette of guards pacing the southern ridge.

I stopped just shy of the treeline and tapped the Nanoboy.

The air hissed.

Blue mist spiraled outward, and the compression field unspooled.

A moment later, the Deathclaw Matriarch hit the ground with a thud that made the earth tremble under my boots.

She landed on her side—massive, twisted, and still streaked with old blood and burn marks. One horn cracked. Limbs stiff. The mouth half-open, as if she'd never really accepted how it ended.

I stared down at her for a long second, then sighed.

"Big bitch."

My shoulder was already sore from the eggs, and now I had to drag her the rest of the way in. I adjusted the netting sling, cracked my neck, and got to work.

The gates groaned as they opened, and I stepped through, one boot at a time, the Matriarch's carcass slung over my shoulders like some twisted war banner. She was heavy—every step reminded me just how much—but I wasn't about to stop now. Not in front of the Grove.

The crowd started forming almost immediately.

Voices hushed. Feet slowed. Eyes widened.

Children near the forge stalls stopped mid-play, their sticks and stones dropped in the dust. Some of the younger ones stared too long, then broke into full sprints back toward the safety of parents or hallways. Others just stood still, mouths slightly open, trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

The Matriarch's claws still swung with every step I took. Her head hung loose, the gaping maw still full of teeth that looked sharp even in death. Her tail dragged a rut through the dirt.

By the time I reached Market Lane, a good dozen people had followed behind me.

That's when I saw Kardin.

He leaned on his usual stall post, arms folded, a half-finished repair project abandoned on the table next to him. He raised one brow, gave me a long, slow once-over, then let out a single exhale through his nose.

Didn't say a word.

He didn't have to.

His expression said it all.

Really? 

I kept walking.

A voice broke through the crowd on my left. Low. Solid. Familiar.

"Last time I saw someone dragging a solo Deathclaw kill through a stronghold," it said, "was Chief Hekarro and Marshal Regalla. Back when the Derangement was just starting."

Vatak stepped forward, the Tenakth warrior who'd been trying to court the Ashmarked woman.

He gave me a single nod.

"Well done," he said.

The crowd quieted.

I didn't stop.

I kept walking, the body heavy across my shoulders, and a hundred eyes on my back like iron hooks.

I carried her all the way to the Longhouse.

No shortcuts. No breaks. Just the slow, steady march up the central path, every step heavier than the last. The crowd had thinned once they realized where I was headed—no one followed me past the forge line. This was Grove business now.

At the foot of the Longhouse steps, I stopped.

Jorta was already waiting at the top.

No fanfare. No speech.

Just him—broad, steady, arms folded, his brace glinting faintly in the light. His eyes moved once—from me to the corpse draped across my shoulders. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

Then he exhaled.

"You could've just skinned it," he said.

I grunted and let the Matriarch slide from my shoulders. She hit the ground with a solid, wet thump that echoed against the steps.

"If something's going to be done," I said, "it better be done by someone who knows how to do it properly."

Jorta looked at me for a long moment, then nodded once.

"Fair."

He turned, snapped his fingers, and raised his voice just enough for the courtyard to hear.

"Get a team. Drag the body to the tanners. Tell them it's fresh and it's Deathclaw. They'll know what that means."

He looked over his shoulder as two Ironbone forgehands hustled out from the side gate.

"Have the stitchers prep their sharpest blades. They'll need full hooks, stabilizers, and machine drills if they want to cut it clean."

Another beat.

"And send for the butchers. I want the meat, organs, marrow, and spine stripped and preserved."

He turned fully back to me.

"None of it goes to waste."

I nodded once, still catching my breath.

"Good," he said.

Then he stepped aside and opened the door.

Jorta didn't move right away.

He looked me over—really looked. His eyes tracked the half-sealed slashes across my chest, the bruising around my ribs, the torn padding around my right shoulder where the Matriarch had bitten deep. His brow furrowed slightly, just enough to be noticed.

"You're leaking," he said flatly.

I glanced down. Blood. Some mine. Some not.

"The stimpaks should've patched it."

Jorta gave a dry grunt. "Unless you're a healer now, you're getting looked over by Madam Curie."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," he said. "You're standing, and that's not the same thing."

I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again.

Jorta pointed toward the far end of the Longhouse, where the medical annex was built from large machine part.

"She's already been informed," he said. "You walk yourself there, or I have someone carry you. Your choice."

I muttered something under my breath and turned toward the path.

"Thought so," Jorta called behind me. "And don't bleed on the threshold."

The medical annex was quiet.

The door hissed shut behind me as I stepped inside, the air immediately cooler and cleaner than the rest of the Grove. The faint scent of antiseptic hung beneath the coppery tang of blood still seeping through my shoulder seam.

"Do not sit," came Curie's voice from behind the partition. "You'll bleed all over my clean table."

She floated into view a moment later, her arms already unfolding into scanning mode. Her chassis was the same—sleek, practical, decades past factory—but it wasn't untouched. Someone had carefully etched tribal glyphs into her outer frame. Faded white lines looped in smooth, deliberate patterns along her shoulders and chestplate. One meant sacred healer. Another marked her as a holy spirit. Symbols of reverence, not utility.

The Kansani didn't worship machines. But they respected what proved itself.

Curie had earned it.

She scanned me once—quick, clinical—and her tone was instantly sharp.

"You were instructed to seek proper medical attention immediately after every engagement," she said, voice tight with disapproval. "Not slap a stimpak into your arm and limp in hours later like a stubborn idiot."

I grunted. "I walked in under my own power. That counts for something."

"It counts for recklessness," she snapped, extending a scanner wand and sweeping it along my chest. "Stimpaks are for emergency field stabilization—not full-body patch jobs after prolonged trauma. You are not a self-sealing suit of armor, Rion. You are a man."

She clicked her tongue. "A very bruised, torn, bleeding one."

I sighed, already regretting walking in upright.

"Two fractured ribs," she continued aloud. "Inflamed shoulder—likely partial dislocation earlier. Lacerations along the right side—some closed by stimpak injection, but not well. Internal bruising. Residual neural stress along the spine—possibly from overexertion."

She paused, floating back slightly as her secondary arms deployed.

"You're lucky you didn't go into shock. And if you had kept walking another hour like this? You might have."

"Great," I muttered. "So I sit?"

"You sit," she confirmed. "And you do not argue."

She gestured to the slab behind me.

"And if I so much as hear you ask for another stim before I'm done, I will sedate you manually."

She gestured sharply toward the medical slab.

"And now," she said, "strip."

I blinked. "What?"

"I need to see everything," she replied, already prepping a sanitation field with one arm while another adjusted the lights overhead. "If I'm going to keep your organs inside your body and your limbs functioning, I need to examine all points of trauma, bruising, or possible fracture. Including the ones you are too prideful or concussed to mention."

I hesitated.

She looked at me, unblinking.

"This is not a negotiation."

With a sigh, I started undoing the clasps on my coat, one by one, feeling each bruise respond as the weight came off. The blood had soaked through three layers already.

Curie continued working without looking.

"I will never understand how warriors like you can face down creatures designed to shred tanks," she said, "but break into a cold sweat at the idea of medical observation."

Curie scanned over my chest with one arm while another ran a narrow probe along my ribs. Then she stopped. Her sensor swept once more across my right shoulder. A small red indicator flashed along her visual interface.

"Hmm," she said, far too calmly.

I narrowed my eyes. "What's hmm?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she reached out, grabbed my right arm just below the shoulder, and twisted.

There was a wet pop followed by a grinding crack as my shoulder dislocated with brutal precision.

"HOLY SHIT!" I shouted, half-jumping off the slab as lightning lanced down my entire arm.

Then—just as fast—she yanked it back, the joint snapping back into place with a deep thunk that rattled my spine.

Pain flashed white across my vision.

I groaned, teeth clenched, body twitching as the nerves lit up and died back down.

"There," she said, retracting her tools like nothing had happened. "Now the joint is properly aligned. Your stimpak closed the wound while the bone was still wrong. I'm surprised you could lift a toothbrush, let alone a weapon."

"Warn me next time!" I barked, clutching the shoulder with my good hand.

"I did," she said, tilting her head. "I said I needed to see everything."

I was halfway through muttering curses under my breath, still recovering from having my arm forcibly reconnected, when the door hissed open behind me.

I turned slightly—still seated, still very much naked—and immediately wished I hadn't.

Sula stepped into the room, followed a half-step behind by Ubba.

Sula's eyes widened the moment she saw me, then flicked immediately to the ceiling. Her cheeks flushed, but her voice stayed level—typical Sula, composed even while staring at air vents.

"I heard you were back," she said. "I'm glad you're alive."

"Appreciate it," I muttered, shifting slightly to minimize the full frontal effect.

Ubba, on the other hand, didn't even pretend to look away.

Her eyes swept down and up once—slow, deliberate.

Then she whistled. "NICE."

I closed my eyes and groaned. "Seriously?"

Curie, entirely unfazed, continued checking her scans.

"You are the one who insisted on avoiding medical attention until full undress was required" she said.

Sula coughed, still staring hard at the corner of the room. "We'll, uh—we'll come back."

Ubba didn't move.

"I'm good staying right here, thanks."

"Out," I barked.

Sula turned immediately and stepped out, her tone trailing behind. "Glad you didn't die, Tourist."

Ubba paused in the doorway, still grinning.

"I see why you didn't."

Then the door hissed shut behind them.

I sighed, head dropping back onto the cold metal slab.

"Kill a Deathclaw. Drag it halfway across the world. Still no peace."

"Correct," Curie replied flatly. "Now hold still—I'm cauterizing the wound."

I was still muttering about locked doors and privacy settings when Curie returned, one of her arms unfolding into a dispensing rig. From the side tray, she produced a small ceramic bowl filled with a thick, dark paste. It smelled sharp—earthy, bitter, with just a hint of something acrid beneath it.

She dipped one of her smaller applicators into the mixture and turned back toward me.

"This will sting," she said.

"Everything does," I muttered.

She ignored the comment and began spreading the paste across the deeper claw marks on my side and shoulder. The first touch burned cold, then hot, then deep—like it was crawling into the tissue and rewriting the pain as it went.

"Base formulation comes from the Kansani," she said, her tone shifting to her usual educational rhythm. "Ground roots. Bloodmoss. Fermented ash bark."

I winced as she hit a particularly raw patch near the ribs.

"I refined the ratios. Added a stabilizing agent—oxygen-reactive. It binds with damaged tissue at the cellular level and triggers a layered regenerative response."

"You mean it heals?"

"I mean it heals better."

She kept working, layering it into every open wound with precision, sealing the edges with a microcurrent field from one of her tool arms.

"This is how medicine is meant to be," she said, more to herself than to me. "Not just what's available. What's possible."

I stayed quiet. The pain had dulled into something warm and distant. The paste didn't numb—it soothed. Like it knew how deep the damage went and worked from the inside out.

By the time she finished, the worst of the ache was gone.

I could breathe again.

I could move again.

I was still sore, still wrecked—but I was whole.

"Now," she said, withdrawing her tools and sealing the paste bowl back into its case, "try not to reopen half of it in the next forty-eight hours."

"No promises."

Curie finished sealing the last of the claw marks with a medical adhesive, then began applying wide wraps of pressure bandaging across my side and shoulder. The fabric was clean, tightly spun, and soaked with something that smelled faintly of mint and burnt metal. It clung snug against the healing paste beneath it—locking the wound in, keeping motion from undoing the work she'd just done.

"Try to keep these on for at least twelve hours," she said, securing the wrap with two thin clips. "You'll still feel every step, but it won't open again unless you're very stupid."

"Define very," I muttered.

She gave me a long look. "You already know."

I exhaled, slow and tired, then stood carefully from the slab. The aches were there, but the pain was dulled. My body felt stiff—used—but not broken.

I opened the Nanoboy with a flick of my wrist. The interface blinked to life, and I pulled my armor from storage, piece by blood-stained piece. I looked it over once, then sighed and fed it back into the intake slot.

It had served its purpose. For now, it was just weight I didn't need.

From a lower slot, I selected a spare tunic and a pair of simple pants—undyed, worn at the cuffs, but clean. I dressed quickly, careful not to pull too hard on the fresh bandages.

I stepped out of the annex, the midday light washing over me like a slow slap. The sounds of the Grove returned in layers—hammer strikes, chatter, the distant hiss of forge steam. Everything felt louder after the quiet hum of the med-bay. Even with the pain dulled, my body still moved like it remembered being broken.

Jorta was waiting just outside.

He stood with his arms folded, leaning against a post near the edge of the walkway. His eyes tracked me from head to toe, settling briefly on the fresh bandages visible beneath my tunic.

"How long did Curie say you had to rest?" he asked, voice low.

"Two days," I said.

He nodded, pushing off the post. "Good. Use them."

I gave him a look, half-suspicious.

"I want you to think," he continued. "Not about winning. Not about power. About her—the Deathclaw. How she moved. How she fought. How she died."

He paused, then met my eyes.

"You want to learn how to fight like one? Start by remembering what it took to kill one."

I nodded once, quiet.

Jorta grunted. "We'll continue your lessons then."

He turned slightly, gesturing down toward the lower courtyard, where I could already hear distant music starting to rise—deep drums, the clang of rhythm bones, the murmur of gathering voices.

"In the meantime," he said, "enjoy yourself. A party's being held."

I raised an eyebrow. "For me?"

He shook his head. "For the Deathclaw. Any time one of them dies, we celebrate."

I frowned. "Celebrate?"

Jorta looked back at me.

"We celebrate its death," he said. "But also its life."

Then he walked off, leaving me to follow the sound of music and the scent of fire-cooked meat trailing on the breeze.

The path curved downward into the Grove's main gathering space, and that's where I heard it—drums, laughter, the low hum of voices gathering in rhythm. The scent of roasted meat drifted in the air, mixed with woodsmoke and something spiced. Colored streamers had been tied between the beams of the central market stalls, and cloth banners flapped in the breeze, inked with black and white glyphs.

It wasn't just a fire pit and some shared rations.

It was a festival.

I blinked. "They're already putting this together?"

"You're late, Tourist!"

I turned at the sound of her voice—Sula, standing on the edge of a vendor's awning with her hands on her hips, her hair braided tight for the gathering, a faint smirk on her face.

A few steps away, leaning against a post with her arms crossed and a chunk of raw hide slung over one shoulder, Ubba waved lazily.

"Come on, muscle boy. You made it through the fight. Try not to die from overthinking now."

I walked closer, still taking it in. The Grove was alive. People were stringing lights across the walls, hauling out cooking spits, pouring casks of fermented rootbrew into shared bowls. Drummers were already circling the fire ring, tuning to each other's rhythm.

"They got all this together fast," I said.

Sula shrugged. "Preparations started the moment word spread someone was going on a Deathclaw hunt."

She didn't say it with pride or sentiment—just fact. Kansani tradition. Clean and sharp.

Ubba chimed in from the side, grinning wide. "Either for your victory or your death. Either way, the two of us were going to get fed."

Sula immediately reached over and smacked her in the arm.

Ubba laughed, didn't flinch.

I shook my head, but couldn't stop the tired smile that crept across my face.

They hadn't just celebrated the kill.

They'd prepared for the outcome.

All of them.

I watched as the crowd thickened around the fire ring. Warriors, stitchers, even a few elders had shown up. Some passed bowls of roasted root and fire-braised meat. Others danced in slow, deliberate patterns, backs straight, arms outstretched—movements more ritual than performance. Laughter echoed through the dusk as more drums joined the rhythm.

Typical Kansani.

They embodied pragmatism. Every tradition had purpose. Every movement served a function. But that didn't mean they'd turn down a reason to party. If anything, it meant they knew exactly when to do it.

A Deathclaw had died.

That was reason enough.

No speeches. No toasts. Just fire, food, and rhythm under the open sky.

And me, standing there, sore and bandaged, dragging in the smell of cooking meat like I hadn't eaten in a week.

In the center of the festival grounds stood what remained of the Matriarch.

Her body had been stripped—clean. Skinless, headless, handless. A hulking mass of raw muscle and exposed tendon stretched across a reinforced spit built from scavenged plating and fire-hardened stakes. The butchers moved in silence, focused and efficient, blades flashing in the firelight as they worked the corpse like artisans.

Every cut was purposeful.

They weren't carving for flavor.

They were separating use from waste.

Long slivers of meat were lifted and passed to nearby spitmasters, who laid them over open flames on flat-grilled slabs. The scent of sizzling Deathclaw filled the air—thick, gamey, oily but rich. Nothing was being left behind. Not even the fat.

The bones—thick, curved, ribbed like living weapons—were set aside in neat piles. Unburned. Untouched by flame.

Fire ruined bone.

And bone could be shaped.

For armor. For blades. For grips and hooks and tools.

The Matriarch hadn't just died. She was becoming something else now. Something the Grove could wear, wield, and remember. This wasn't just celebration. It was transformation.

One of the butchers working near the chest cavity looked up mid-cut and spotted me.

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour!" he called out, voice booming across the fire ring.

I stopped walking.

He grinned, elbow-deep in sinew and steam, holding a long-bladed hook in one hand and gesturing toward a nearby table with the other.

"Got something special saved just for you."

I knew before he said it.

"The heart," he declared, pulling a wrapped bundle from a sealed hide pouch and lifting it up like a prize.

Of course.

I cursed in my head. Great. I'm about to be forced to pull a Daenerys.

The crowd was already turning to look, a few warriors nodding approvingly. A few elders murmured something low. Even from where I stood, I could see the faint reddish glisten of the organ—cooked just enough to be safe, still very much recognizable.

It was an honor.

A rite.

A statement.

If you kill the beast, you eat the part that made it move.

The butcher stepped forward, presenting the heart like it was a sacred relic. It was big—almost the size of my head—dark red, still glistening from the flame-sear. I could see the knife marks where it had been cleaned, the thicker sinews sliced to make it easier to chew. Easier, not easy.

He placed it in my hands with both palms up.

The crowd began to murmur.

Then someone—probably Kardin—started chanting.

"Eat it. Eat it. Eat it."

Others joined.

Voices rising in rhythm with the drums.

"Eat it. Eat it. Eat it!"

Sula was near the front now, arms crossed but grinning, her voice clear as glass as she joined the chant.

Ubba cupped her hands around her mouth, practically howling.

"EAT IT!"

I held the damn thing in both hands, stared down at the weight of it—pulseless now, but still warm.

The chant grew louder.

The butcher stepped back, arms wide.

I looked at the heart.

I looked at the crowd.

Then I shouted, as loud as I could.

"GOD DAMN IT!"

The entire Grove roared with laughter. Even the elders cracked smiles. Some of the kids were on their knees from laughing too hard.

But they didn't stop chanting.

And I didn't get to back out.

I exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. Fine. I could handle this. With a grimace and a full-body sigh, I brought the heart up to my mouth and took the first bite.

It was dense. Metallic. Tougher than I expected.

And it tasted like victory marinated in regret.

But I swear to every half-forgotten god of the Old World—I better get a perk from eating this damn thing.

I tore off another chunk, trying not to think about what it was or how warm it still felt in my hands. The crowd kept cheering, pounding fists against tables and shoulders, the drums picking up speed with every bite I forced down.

Then something hit me.

It wasn't the taste.

It was a shift—a pressure behind my eyes, a sudden tightness in my chest. Not pain. Not heat. Something else.

The Focus blinked.

Perk Acquired – Apex Consumption: Matriarch Heart (Raw)

Heart of the Claw

Effect: Grants increased close-quarters resilience, +10% claw and blade resistance, +25% reaction time boost when outnumbered or flanked. Triggers minor adrenaline surge after taking damage.

I blinked hard, almost dropping the heart.

Of course.

Of course eating a raw Deathclaw heart would trigger something.

I took a breath, let the system message fade, and looked down at the half-eaten organ still steaming in my hands.

Totally worth it.

Still disgusting.

I'd barely finished chewing the last bite of heart when the drums shifted.

What had been rhythmic celebration turned sharp—measured. The kind of beat meant for watching, for blood and motion. A new circle had formed near the central clearing, where the butchers had set aside the rest of the Matriarch's organs on ceremonial slabs, each wrapped in hide and marked with glyphs painted in ash.

The fighting had started.

Not wild brawls. Not drunken scraps.

Structured matches—sharp, fast, brutal contests of hand-to-hand skill.

The first bracket was already underway. Warriors circled each other beneath the hanging bones of the ribcage, fighting for the liver—a symbol of strength, endurance, and grounding. It was a man's competition, mostly. Veterans, young Ashmarked, even a few clan champions who didn't need the liver but fought for the honor of losing well.

On the other side of the field, the women had begun their trials. The prize there was different.

The Matriarch's reproductive organs.

It wasn't taboo. The Kansani didn't flinch from such things. It was tradition—raw and clear. Life was strength. Fertility was a gift wrested from death, and if a woman wanted to bear children, she could claim the right to do so by taking power from something that had once ruled over the wilds.

I scanned the fighters.

And sure enough, Vatak Iron-Blood was stepping into the men's bracket, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched, paint redrawn across his collar. He wasn't just competing for pride.

Across the fire ring, Vana Blackroot, the woman he was trying to court, was tying her braids back with slow, deliberate motions. Her stance was steady, her expression calm. She faced down an Oseram woman easily twice her width—and looked like she was waiting for a reason to strike.

Of course they were both fighting.

Vatak and Vana.

It wasn't just about the organs.

It was about proving who you were, in front of who mattered.

Kansani to the bone.

The drums slowed into a steady rhythm as the matches began in earnest, one field for men, the other for women. Across both, the competitors circled, measured, and struck. But in the brief space before movement began, I caught it.

Vatak Iron-Blood and Vana Blackroot looked at each other from across their respective circles.

Neither smiled. Neither nodded.

But the look they shared said more than words could've.

Sula appeared beside me, arms crossed as she watched the field with that same calm intensity she brought to combat. Her voice came low, like it didn't want to interrupt the moment—just explain it.

"He finally convinced her."

I glanced sideways. "Convinced who?"

"Vana," she said. "To let him court her."

I raised a brow. "That was fast."

Sula shook her head. "It's been a year. She only just agreed."

My eyes drifted back to the field, where Vana's stance shifted. She was still, but focused. Her opponent didn't see it yet, but I did. She was about to strike.

"What's the condition?" I asked.

Sula didn't hesitate. "He wins his tournament. She wins hers."

I let out a short breath and gave a low nod.

Of course.

Kansani courtship wasn't about flowers or poetry.

It was about blood, sweat, and proving you were strong enough to walk beside someone who didn't need you.

POV Vatak Iron-Blood

The crowd faded as the signal drum struck.

Everything outside the circle blurred—faces, banners, firelight. All I saw was the man across from me. Taller, leaner, faster by the looks of it. I didn't know his name. Didn't need to. He was between me and what mattered.

The officiator's voice echoed: "For the liver."

We stepped in.

He moved quick, jerking his shoulders to fake rhythm, bouncing like a Strider on uneven legs. Fast hands, shallow stance. Not Lowland-trained. Probably a runner—someone who tried to outpace pain instead of anchoring into it.

That was fine. I've had a year to learn to combat the Kansani fighting style

And I've from a young age been taught to weather men like him.

We circled once, twice. He struck first—a snap jab at my temple, more of a test than a threat. I didn't flinch. I leaned my weight and let it kiss air. My left foot slid through the dirt in a wide hook. My arms stayed low, elbows tucked. Waiting.

He came in again, this time with a feint into a cross-body slash. I moved with it, rolling my shoulder, and met him inside the arc.

Elbow.

It landed clean—right against his chin hinge. He staggered. His feet slipped in the dirt. His jaw snapped shut like a trap, eyes wide from the impact. Before he could fall, I caught his arm, stepped through, and dragged.

He hit the earth with a deep thud.

The crowd barked approval, but I barely heard it.

I was smiling—inwardly.

Not because of the fight.

Because Vana was watching.

Because this time, she hadn't walked away.

A year of trying. A year of challenges, wordless nods, and long silences that said no.

And now—this.

Her eyes had met mine across the field before the matches started. No smile. No grin. Just that steady, unreadable gaze. She'd agreed to let me court her.

On one condition.

We both win.

So I stepped back, let the man rise, and gave him just enough space to fail again.

This wasn't for the crowd. This wasn't for glory.

This was for her.

I anchored low again, feet wide, hands steady.

And waited.

He came in again, more cautious this time, a looping hook aimed wide toward my neck. I dipped low, caught his arm mid-swing, and stepped into him. My knee slammed into his thigh. His balance cracked. I turned my hip and swept.

He hit the ground again.

I stayed on him—close enough to crush, but I let him breathe. Not mercy. Just rhythm.

My body moved on its own now, but my mind wasn't here.

It was then.

The first time I saw her—Vana Blackroot—she'd walked into the Lowland settlement like she owned the roots it was built on. No ceremony. No guards. Just her, a spear, and a single challenge:

"Point me to your best."

She fought five that day. No breaks. No hesitation.

She beat all of them.

When she faced me, I expected a duel.

What I got was a lesson.

She didn't outmatch me with strength. She read me. Every feint I tried, she answered like she'd already lived the fight in her head. Her footwork was brutal and quiet. Her throws were ugly. Practical.

Kansani.

I spent the next two weeks trying to pretend it didn't matter. That it was just pride. That I hadn't fallen for the woman who folded me in front of my own people.

But I had.

Every bruise became memory. Every ache became fixation.

She didn't flirt. She didn't smile. She warned.

And that only made it worse.

I came back stronger. Fought harder. Climbed higher. Spilled sweat into stone so that if I stood near her again, it would be as an equal.

And now here I was. Separated from my clan, from my people, from my home, from my squad. A world away, but it was worth it. Vana was giving me a chance.

So here I was back in a ring. For her.

My opponent rose, breathing hard, legs shaking. I could tell he had one more in him. Maybe. I let him come.

He tried a grapple this time—body low, arms wide. I met him halfway, twisted, and brought down my elbow across the back of his neck.

He dropped like a tree that had already given up.

POV Vana Blackroot

The ring was loud—stomping, cheering, drums—but I barely heard any of it.

I kept my arms loose at my sides, rolling one shoulder, then the other. My boots settled into the dirt, wide and low. Across from me, the Oseram woman cracked her neck like it meant something. Big arms. Thick neck. Nose that had been broken a few too many times and never healed right.

She wasn't here to fight for herself.

No one was lining up to make babies with that face.

Which meant she was fighting for someone else.

Or worse—looking to profit. Probably sell the organs to some midwife who'd grind them into powder, bottle them up with promises, and peddle them to desperate girls too afraid to face a real trial.

Didn't matter.

She wasn't going to win.

Because I wasn't here for tradition.

Not just to earn the right.

Not this time.

I'd already found someone I wouldn't mind having children with.

Vatak.

He didn't know it yet. Not really. But he'd wormed his way in—slow, steady, stupid in all the right ways. Every time he trained harder, every time he lost without complaint, every time he showed up again like it was the first time.

I gave him my condition: win your bracket.

What I didn't say was that if he did, we'd start soon.

I wasn't here to posture.

I was here to claim it.

The officiator called for readiness.

I slid my foot back, dropped into stance, and watched as the Oseram woman grinned.

"Gonna fold you like a tarp, twig."

I didn't answer.

Didn't blink.

The drum struck once.

And I moved.

She charged right off the line.

No patience. No testing.

Just brute force.

That was fine.

I pivoted to the side, let her momentum carry her forward, then struck low—one sharp elbow into her exposed kidney. Her body jerked with the impact, but she didn't go down.

Good.

I wanted her standing.

She spun, swinging wide with a backfist meant to take my head off. I ducked, rolled under it, and came up inside her guard. My palm slammed into her sternum, followed by a rising knee to the gut. I felt the breath go out of her. She stumbled backward.

Still didn't fall.

I closed the distance again, fast. No wasted motion. My foot snapped up and caught her in the side of the knee. Her leg buckled. She grunted, swung blindly.

I slipped past it, grabbed her wrist, and twisted.

She screamed as her shoulder gave under the torque, her knees finally giving out.

I took her down in a clean spiral, drove her onto her back, and pinned her arm with my knee. Her free hand grabbed at my collar, but it was too late. I brought my elbow down across her jaw.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, she went limp.

The officiator stepped in.

"Match over!"

I stood without looking at the crowd. My chest rose and fell in even rhythm. My blood was calm.

Across the field, I looked toward the men's bracket.

I didn't need to find Vatak in the crowd.

I already knew he'd won his match.

Because now?

So had I.

Pov Rion

The matches kept rolling.

Fresh fighters stepped into the dirt as others limped out. The rhythm never stopped—strikes, falls, crowd surges. I watched closely, trying not to just see, but read.

At first, it looked like they were all using the same style. Same footwork. Same sharp angles. Same low center of gravity that made Kansani warriors so damn hard to knock over.

But the longer I watched, the more differences I started picking up.

One fighter moved like a mountain—slow, heavy, but impossible to budge. Every strike came from his hips. Every grab turned into a slam.

Another barely touched the ground, slipping around opponents with tight arcs and coiled strikes that came out of nowhere.

Then there was a third—wild, brutal, all snapping jaws and crashing weight. He lunged into every clash like he didn't care if he got hit as long as he hit harder.

I leaned slightly toward Sula, who stood beside me with her arms crossed, watching the same chaos unfold.

"There's more than one style, isn't there?" I asked.

She nodded without looking at me.

"Same root. Different paths."

I raised an eyebrow. "Break it down for me."

"Beast styles first," she said. "Bear. Puma. Wolf."

She gestured subtly as she spoke. "Bear's the wall. Heavy, grounded. Good in close. Breaks bone. Puma's fast. Precision and misdirection. Makes you look slow even when you're not. Wolf is pressure. Circles. Wears you down, then tears you apart when you slip."

I watched as one of the Wolf types circled his opponent twice and then dropped him with a short, brutal takedown.

"And that's not all," she added. "We've got machine styles too. Ravager, Thunderjaw, Gatecrasher."

My brow furrowed. "You mimic machines?"

She smirked. "You kill something enough times, you learn something about how it fights. Ravager style hits in short, lethal bursts—get in, kill, get out. Thunderjaw's about controlling the battlefield. Heavy stomps. Wide strikes. It's like fighting a storm. Gatecrasher's for breaking formations. Speed. Impact. No feints. Just crack and flood."

I watched a Thunderjaw style fighter throw two people in the same motion, pivoting with earth-shaking force.

"And Jorta?" I asked. "His style?"

"Deathclaw Kenpo," she said, her voice lower now. "Post-Derangement. One of the first."

I looked at her. "And mine?"

She finally turned to meet my eyes.

"Yours will be the second."

Sula turned back toward the fighting ring, watching as another pair locked up in a brutal clinch, one driving knees while the other tried to twist free with a hooked arm and an elbow counter.

"Most tribes have variations of their combat styles," she said. "It's normal. You teach by doing, and every teacher has a different way of moving."

I nodded. That tracked.

"It was worse back when we didn't have glyphs," she continued. "When everything was passed down through motion and memory. Every region. Every family. Even some hunting parties. All of them had their own spin."

She paused, gesturing to one of the fighters—a woman who fought low, coiled, exploding out of her stance like a spring trap every time her opponent shifted forward.

"For the Kansani, things didn't really start settling until we began carving it down. Turning the movements into language. Making glyphs to anchor it."

"Written combat," I said.

She nodded. "Once we could name the forms, teach them by stroke and structure—it stopped being instinct. It became craft."

I watched the fighter drop her opponent with a leg catch and palm strike combination, fast and brutal. The crowd shouted. A name was called.

"And now?" I asked.

"Now we keep the roots," she said. "But we grow it clean."

Another match ended with a clean sweep. Two fighters bowed, one favoring a dislocated shoulder. The next pair stepped in.

That's when I saw him.

Broad-shouldered. Silent. Not dressed like the Kansani or any of the nearby clans. His hair was braided back in thick, simple cords, but the tattoos were all wrong. No tribal glyphs. Just red ink rings on his forearms and a faded necklace with a broken feather charm tucked under his collar.

A Nora.

An exile, by the looks of him. No tribe markings. No chieftain's knot. Just quiet focus and callused knuckles.

Sula must've seen me watching.

"Name's Walor," she said. "Came through Ironwood about a year ago. Asked for a trial. Earned the right to stay."

"He doesn't look like he plans to win," I said, watching him roll out his shoulders. He stood at the edge of the circle, eyes down, not even sizing up his opponent.

"He doesn't," Sula replied. "He's not here for the prize."

"Then what?"

"To prove his strength to the Grove. That's all."

I nodded slowly. "What got him kicked out?"

Sula didn't blink. "Punched a High Matriarch in the mouth."

I choked slightly. "What?"

She nodded. "His brother got made an outcast for something stupid. Something no one will tell me, so it probably wasn't much. When he got hurt—bad—no one helped him. Not even when he was dying."

My jaw tightened.

"So Walor walked into the heart of Mother's Watch and punched the bitch that made the call."

I stared a little longer.

"Bet it was Lansra."

Sula gave me a sideways glance, her brow lifting just slightly.

"How'd you know it was Lansra?"

I snorted and shook my head, watching Walor stretch his arms with slow, deliberate focus.

"Let's just say I've heard enough of the Nora cursing her name to start making educated guesses."

She gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, but didn't push. That was the thing about Sula—she noticed things, but didn't pry unless it mattered.

I appreciated that more than I said.

Across the ring, Walor stepped into the circle.

He moved with a heavy calm—like a man who wasn't here to perform, just prove.

I settled in to watch.

Not because he was Nora.

But because he was still here.

That meant he'd survived something that broke most people.

And tonight, he meant to show it.

The next match was called, and the name that echoed across the Grove pulled a few murmurs from the crowd.

"Walor of No Tribe."

I straightened a little, eyes tracking him as he stepped into the ring.

He didn't look like much at first glance. Broad. Solid. Face unreadable. No paint. No glyphs. Just old red ink spiraling his forearms and a long scar that ran from his jaw to his collarbone. His gear was mismatched—stitched by hand, worn thin in places—but clean.

The man across from him was a well-decorated Ashmarked with forearm plating and a spear half a foot taller than he was.

I glanced toward Sula, who watched with that same cold fire she reserved for serious matters.

"You said he's not here to win," I murmured.

"He's not," she said. "But he won't go down easy."

The officiator dropped his hand. The match began.

Walor didn't posture. He didn't salute. He didn't circle.

He just moved.

Straight forward.

The Ashmarked swung first—a wide, textbook opening to test footwork and control the center.

Walor slipped under it and crashed into his chest like a hammer. No finesse. No poetry. Just momentum and weight.

They hit the ground in a tangle. The Ashmarked tried to roll away and reset, but Walor was already on him. His fists came down fast and flat—elbow, palm, backfist, palm. All blunt. All short. All ugly.

It wasn't the Way of the Embrace.

There was no grace. No flow. Just pain.

Just what was left after exile.

He fought like a man who had no tribe to impress. Only a message to deliver.

"I'm still here."

The Ashmarked caught him in the jaw with a wild knee that would've dropped most men.

Walor bit down and took it.

Then he slammed his forearm across the other man's throat and drove him into the dirt until the officiator called the match.

Walor stood, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding. He didn't raise his hands. He didn't look for applause.

He just turned, nodded once toward the officiator, and walked off like the fight hadn't meant anything at all.

But it had. I could feel it. He wasn't trying to take the organ. He was trying to take his place.

The officiator raised a hand and called it.

"Walor of No Tribe—victory."

For a second, there was nothing. Just the thrum of firelight and the low rasp of wind through the Grove.

Then the cheering started.

Not polite applause. Not just formality.

Real cheers.

Kansani warriors beat fists to their chests. Some howled. Others raised drinking bowls. The drummers picked up the rhythm, not for ceremony, but for him. For a man with no glyphs. No clan. No name in the Grove beyond what he'd carved himself.

Walor stood in the ring, not looking at anyone. Still catching his breath.

But I saw it.

The tension bled out of his shoulders, slow and quiet—like a weight he'd been carrying for years had finally been set down.

He didn't smile. Didn't celebrate.

But I could tell.

This meant something.

The Kansani didn't care that he was Nora.

He'd stepped into the circle, and he hadn't backed down.

That was all they needed.

The tournament kept moving.

Blows landed. Bones cracked. Some matches ended with quiet taps, others in slams so loud they echoed off the Longhouse walls. But none of it pulled attention the way the finals did.

Walor vs. Vatak.

The man with no clan against the man fighting for more than pride.

They stepped into the circle just as the drums fell quiet.

Walor stood tall, still bruised from his last match, chest heaving with controlled breath. Vatak rolled his neck once, then dropped into stance—wide, low, rooted like stone. The crowd didn't cheer this time. Not yet.

This was respect now.

The match began.

It wasn't quick.

Walor hit like a hammer, direct and punishing. But Vatak absorbed it, redirected it, turned his body into a tide that wore Walor down with every passing second. What Walor brought in force, Vatak countered in rhythm. Iron Tide against bare-knuckle will.

It ended when Vatak caught Walor's leg in a hook and brought him crashing to the dirt, then followed with a clean shoulder pin and waited for the officiator to call it.

He did.

Match over.

The crowd erupted.

Vatak stood, panting, blood streaked along his brow, and reached down.

Walor took the offered hand without a word.

They locked arms for a breath.

Then Vana stormed into the ring. She didn't speak. She grabbed Vatak by the collar, spun him, and kissed him hard enough to knock the air out of both of them.

The crowd howled.

Cheers broke like thunder, bowls raised high. Drums picked up a wild, off-beat rhythm—half rhythm, half celebration.

Vatak whooped, grabbed Vana around the waist, and let her pull him toward the edge of the Grove. They disappeared around the corner, laughing, stumbling, half-drunk on adrenaline and each other.

And the Grove cheered louder still.

Walor didn't follow Vatak and Vana. He stood alone at the edge of the circle, watching the celebration unfold. His chest rose and fell with even breaths, his fists slowly unclenching at his sides.

Then someone clapped him on the back.

Another brought him a bowl.

A third bumped his shoulder, said something I couldn't hear, and laughed.

He didn't smile. But he didn't walk away either.

The tribe was embracing him.

Not with ceremony.

With presence.

With acknowledgment. With space around the fire. With nods that meant you stood your ground. That you didn't have to be born here to belong here.

And for a moment, I thought of another Nora—one I hadn't seen in this world yet.

A redheaded girl raised as an outcast.

Alone in the Embrace.

Not by law, not by tradition. By superstition. By the fear of people who claimed to be holy.

I wonder how she's doing right now?

Miles away in The Embrace.

The sky was just beginning to pale at the edge, the sun hiding behind the snow-capped peaks. Aloy's breath came in sharp clouds as she flowed through the sequence again—her body sore, her fists stinging, but her focus unshakable.

She moved in circles around the training post—low, coiled steps, her weight shifting like she was balancing on ice.

Weave Step.

Her feet slid in a wide arc, hips pivoting forward. She launched into a rising palm strike—Shock Palm, she'd started calling it—a move that came from the hips, not the arm.

Crack.

The hit echoed through the cold air, but she winced. Too soon. Again.

"Don't lead with your shoulder," Rost called out, arms crossed as he stood at the edge of the stone ledge. "Let the ground push the strike through you. Start from your toes."

Aloy nodded and reset. She stepped again, then transitioned into a tight hook, her body turning with it—followed by a sharp elbow. Advance Hammer. She stumbled slightly on the follow-through but caught herself with a shoulder drop into a retreating stance.

Not perfect. But better than yesterday.

"Again."

She went through it again, smoother now. Weave Step. Shock Palm. Advance Hammer. Spinning Elbow. Each one faster, tighter. Her boot slipped slightly on the frost-covered stone, but she adjusted without pausing.

When she stopped, her breath came fast but controlled. She turned toward Rost.

"This isn't like anything the Braves use," she said. "It's faster. Heavier."

Rost nodded slowly. "It isn't Nora."

She stepped forward, wiping sweat from her face. "Then what is it?"

He didn't answer right away. His gaze wandered toward the horizon, eyes distant.

"I found it in a ruin," he said at last. "Buried beneath what was once a city. Only one thing inside still worked—a projection. A man. Fighting."

Aloy tilted her head. "A training recording?"

"No." Rost's voice was quiet now. "A legacy. He moved like lightning chained to a storm. Every strike meant something. Every dodge was a decision. He called it the Niko Style."

"That his name?"

"No." Rost paused. "His name was Ohma. Ohma Tokita. And in the recording... he said the style was made to destroy evil."

Aloy blinked. "Destroy evil?"

Rost nodded once. "I can attest to that."

She narrowed her eyes. "What were you doing in a ruin?"

Rost's voice lowered. "I didn't become an outcast without reason."

He met her eyes. "I don't regret it. But I won't tell you the story. Not yet. Maybe one day."

He looked at his gloved hands. "I rebuilt what I could," Rost said. "Adapted it. Integrated the spear. Changed stances to fit our terrain. What I practice now... it's not Niko Style. Not even Ohma Style."

He stepped forward into a spear-ready stance—low, guarded, and lethal. "It's Rost Style now. Not for pride. For survival. For what it's become."

Aloy smirked faintly. "You named it after yourself?"

He gave her a look. "The man in the recording said the name didn't matter. Only that the style lives. If you can carry it forward... you'll shape it into something new, too."

He paused a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. "For you, Aloy, this way of fighting—" his voice dropped, "—it can erase doubt. The doubt the tribe has in you. The doubt you have in them."

He stepped closer, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

"And most importantly—the doubt you carry in yourself. Now again."

She followed the command and dropped into a stance beside him and flowed again—Weave Step. Shock Palm. Advance Hammer. Shoulder Drop. Her movements were cleaner now. But her Spinning Elbow still dragged her heel too wide.

She stumbled—again.

Rost didn't flinch. "Even Ohma fell in that recording. Missed a sweep. He got up. No shame in it."

Aloy smiled through her frustration. "Then I'll fall until I stop falling."

He nodded. "Then you're learning."

She took one more breath. "What did Ohma say? Before the end?"

Rost looked at her, eyes distant. "He said... 'I don't need a reason to fight. But I'll never fight without resolve.'"

Aloy turned to the rising sun, sweat drying on her skin.

"Then I won't either."

They moved together then—student and teacher, echo and heir. The ghost of a long-dead warrior lived in every step. But this wasn't just preservation.

This was evolution.