FREE USE in Primitive World

The commanders and elders threw themselves into the new arrangements, their voices dropping from a panicked roar into low, rushed whispers as they cross-referenced maps and spirit-compatibilities.

The air in the High Hall was thick with a calculated malice now.

Sol stepped back from the obsidian slab, letting the crowd of veterans argue over which scouts had the fastest wind-attribute core pathways to fill out the four hornet squads.

Anyway, the strategy was set. Now came the part where he had to stand in a muddy ravine with a few hundred terrified recruits and watch four thousand alien bastards run at them with their mouths open.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve for an outsider, kid,” a voice rumbled from behind him.

Sol turned his head. Thauren, the Lion Commander, was outside the war room, standing by the pillar, his massive seven-foot frame shaking the dust off his golden scales armor as he shifted his weight.

The veteran general wasn’t rushing out like other commanders; he was looking at Sol with a steady, analyzing weight in his yellow eyes.

“A feigned retreat with green boys who have barely held a bone-shield,” Thauren muttered, a slow, predatory grin splitting his scarred face. “If they run too fast, they’ll actually trample each other. If they run too slow, the Zerith lanky monsters will turn them into black soup before we can drop from the ridges. You really think you can keep those rabbits from scattering into the brush before the trap snaps?”

Sol adjusted the scabbard of the Dreadwing Blade at his hip, his tone completely casual. “They’ll run because they’re terrified, Commander. That’s the easy part. My job is just making sure they run in a straight line toward your anvil.

Just make sure your troops don’t choke on the high ground while I’m playing the worm.”

Thauren let out a rough, booming laugh that rattled the weapon racks nearby. “Don’t worry about the lion’s teeth, kid. Just worry about keeping your own head attached. If you die in the center, Veylara will probably skin me alive for letting her best butcher go to waste.”

With a final heavy slap to his own chest armor, the giant general turned and strode out of the hall, his boots making the stone floor ring.

“Sol.”

He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The sharp scent of crushed lotus and swamp lilies drifted through the air before she even came to a halt beside his shoulder.

Zeyra stood there, her hands tucked neatly inside the wide sleeves of her pristine shamanic battle robes. The shy, blushing girl from the washbasin was completely gone, but the dark pupils in her eyes were burning with that unblinking, yandere intensity.

She reached out, her long, flexible fingers lightly dragging over the black plates of his Rockhorn breastplate, her touch leaving a faint trace of moisture on the dark carapace.

“You’re putting yourself right in the throat of the meat grinder,” she said, her voice so low and raspy it barely carried past his ear. “Leading three hundred frightened children to play meat for four thousand monsters. If Thauren’s anvil strikes a single breath too late, or if Veylara’s flank gets bogged down in the mud…”

“They won’t be late,” Sol muttered, his tone completely casual as he adjusted the leather straps around his left forearm. “Veylara is wrong enough to handle all the accidents, and Thauren looks like he hasn’t had a proper fight in a long time.

Besides, the crazier the Coalition gets, the wider they’ll open their throats. It’s exactly what we need.”

Zeyra’s fingers slid out of her wide sleeve, her knuckles lightly brushing against the back of his bare hand. The skin of her palm was slightly cool, but the small contact sent a sudden, sharp memory of her frantic, clawing grip from an hour ago straight through his veins.

“If a single one of those lanky bastards touches you while you’re playing the bait…” Zeyra whispered, he eyes widening into thin, dark slits as that volatile yandere edge flared right back to the surface.

“I’ll let the snake spirit consume my own core to melt the whole valley into an acid bog. I’ll make sure nothing grows in that dirt for a hundred generations, Sol. Don’t make me do that.”

Sol let out a low, dry chuckle, his thumb casually catching her wrist, squeezing the small bone tightly for a fraction of a second until she let out a soft hiss of satisfaction. “Keep your snake in its skin. Go and rest now, you need to rest to recover, if you want to participate in yesterday’s events.”

Hmm, I’ll go and take some herbs and recover as soon as possible ,” she promised, her voice dropping back into a submissive, adoring purr as she pulled her hand back into her robes. “And don’t underestimate me, I’m much stronger than that, and can easily handle something like this.”

“Easy huh?” He chuckled, “let’s see if you dare to say that next time.”

She blushed hearing it, remembering the events from a few hours ago. “Aggh! Just go and do your work. We’ll see what will happen next time.”

Sol chucked and gave her a short, confident nod and turned on his heel, his heavy boots creating a solitary, dominant thud against the floorboards as he headed for the exit.

As he neared the heavy petrified doors, a familiar figure blocked his path. Kira was leaning against the thick timber frame, her bone blade resting casually over her shoulder. Her stormy feline eyes looked him up and down, tracking the fresh scratches on his neck and the slight change in his aura after the intense cultivation round.

She let out a sharp, annoyed sniff, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“You smell like swamp lilies, outsider,” Kira muttered, her jaw tight as she glared past his shoulder toward where Zeyra was standing. “And you look entirely too relaxed for someone who’s about to stand in front of a horde with a bunch of crying babies.”