FREE USE in Primitive World

The pooling blood of the seven shadow stalkers slowly seeped into the cracked clay at the roots of the weeping reeds, turning the shallow puddles into a thick, foul muck that gave off the sharp stench of Zerith’s body.

Sol stood still in the center of the crushed grass patch, his breath coming in slow, deep measures.

The molten golden-silver liquid inside his body rolled with a heavy, thick rhythm, settling deep into his chest pool like a reservoir of warm star metal.

The unrefined essence of the Layer 3 scouts he had just harvested was thoroughly absorbed by the sun core this time.

Thauren slid his massive blade back onto his gold-scaled shoulder, the heavy bone-fittings clicking against his leather bindings with a wet, heavy thud.

He wiped a splash of green Zerith ichor from his scarred chin, his eyes looking at the five carcasses the warriors had just finished pinning to the ground with their long bone-spears.

”The plain is quiet again,” Thauren muttered, his rough voice dropping into a gravelly baritone that barely carried past the high weeds. ”But the wind from the lower flats is getting heavier. Those bugs won’t stay missing for long.”

Before Sol could answer, one by one, the elite spirit warriors of the main vanguard stepped into the open clearing, their bone-spears lowered but their eyes still bright with the raw adrenaline of the ambush.

The dense, hanging briars at the edge of the ironwood treeline parted without a single rustle. Warchief Veylara strode out from the black shadows, her eyes scanning the heaps of dead Zerith scouts with a grim, savage satisfaction. Her long, heavy-spear held loosely across her shoulder.

Beside her walked High Shaman Zephyra, her body wrapped in thick plant-fiber shawls that trailed across the wet grass stalks, and a small circle of the tribe’s elders.

Sol’s eyes swept across the old men walking behind the Chief. Most of the elders had stayed behind inside the Feline Spire to maintain the defensive totems, maintain order and guard the wooden walls against any unexpected accidents while the main army was away.

But a few of the senior blood-line leaders had insisted on marching through the night trails with the main troops to help fight against the enemy.

Among them, standing surprisingly straight and upright near the back of the group, was Thorne.

Sol’s silver-crimson eyes narrowed into two sharp slits as they locked onto the disgraced elder. Today, Thorne looked entirely different from the broken, downcast creature who had been cowering in the dark corners of the huts yesterday. He had looked like a man waiting for the executioner’s bone-axe to take his head.

But right now, as Thorne stepped forward, his shoulders were no longer slumped, his chest was thrown forward, and his entire body language carried a strange, unyielding confidence that seemed completely out of place for a man who had been humiliated repeatedly.

His breathing was deep and energetic, his wrinkled hands resting firmly on the handle of his bone-knife with light posture. He even offered a small, polite nod toward Sol.

Sol didn’t respond and watched him closely, his silver-crimson eyes glinting with cold logic. Did something happen inside the walls that I wasn’t told about? he wondered internally. Did Veylara secretly soften her stance and forgive his treachery behind my back?

He immediately dismissed the thought. It was completely impossible.

Even though the Veynar Tribe harbored other small, weak-marrow rats who had been corrupted by fear, Thorne was undeniably the largest and most dangerous traitor among them. The damage the Veynar had suffered due to his hidden leaks was immense... the most recent Zerith night raid alone had left multiple veteran scouts and warriors dead in the jungle before the warning horns could even leave their throats.

Veylara wouldn’t wipe that blood off his hands, even if he were her own kin.

So why did he look so confident? So... anticipatory?

For him to be walking with such unbothered, energetic confidence meant something else was fueling his blood.

The old man’s sudden confidence was deeply intriguing, and it immediately made Sol’s mind drift toward a much larger blank spot in their current calculations: the Zharun tribe.

For the past two suns, there had been an absolute, suffocating silence from the Zharun lines. It was odd, even terrifying for a primitive war of this scale.

In the ecology of the Great Orrath, when three tribal factions formed a pact to tear down a common enemy, they didn’t cut off their signal fires or hide their banners.

Even a cold, direct refusal to join the vanguard or a blunt threat of betrayal would have been easier to read than this total, hanging silence.

But there had been nothing.

Even though the Veynar were completely swamped with their own war preparations, Sol had personally ordered two fast-moving speed scouts to check the neutral valley clearing where the Zharun had previously promised to set up their temporary hunting camp.

The scouts had returned at midnight with an unsettling report.

When the scouts arrived, the clearing was completely bare. No cold fire pits, no broken spears, no fresh tracks in the clay. It was as if an entire civilization of warriors had suddenly ”disappeared” into the mist of the primordial jungle without leaving a single drop of grease or a broken bone behind.

It was a complete void.

Did they flee deeper into the untamed sectors? Sol thought, his knuckles tightening slightly against his belt. Or are they waiting in the dark for the two main armies to break each other’s bones first?

”Sol.”

A sudden, soft, hand clutched his shoulder, shaking him out of his chain of thought. Sol blinked, his focus snapping back to the clearing. High Shaman Zephyra was standing right in front of him, her beautiful face pale and her milky eyes wide with urgent concern.

”Which thoughts are you lost in?” Zephyra whispered, her voice low but steady beneath the rustle of the canopy. ”The sun is climbing past the high leaves. Let’s get moving.”