FREE USE in Primitive World

”A beast tide from the southern delta is a true nightmare,” another warrior whispered to his squad mate in the ranks. ”It takes everything a tribe has just to hold the walls. Honestly, nothing is more important than the survival of the tribe. Their lack of response... it’s entirely understandable.”

The narrative was incredibly powerful. To a tribal warrior who lived every single day fighting against the hostile ecology of the Great Orrath, the excuse of a beast tide was the ultimate, irrefutable justification.

You cannot send an army to help your neighbor when a swamp behemoth is currently tearing the roof off your own house. The deep-seated tribal empathy for defending one’s home instantly overrode their earlier suspicions.

But unlike the relieved elders and the nodding warriors, Warchief Veylara did not relax her posture.

Her grip on her heavy bone-spear remained strong. She stared at Vane’s face, her eyes burning right through his mask of exhaustion and humility.

”Oh,” Veylara said, her voice suddenly overpowering the relieved murmurs. ”That is indeed a harrowing tale, Vane. A beast tide is indeed a terrible curse to bear.”

”But if I remember right... we never told you guys about the exact location of the battlefield.”

The murmurs among the Veynar came to a sudden, violent halt.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the most compassionate warrior realized the massive, glaring hole in Vane’s story.

When the Zharun emissaries had originally come to the Veynar tribe to ask for an alliance, they had only requested that the Zharun camp at a specific, designated valley in the middle ground between their territories.

Because the Veynar had suspected they were dealing with traitors leaking information to the Coalition, Veylara and Sol had strictly kept the details of their strategy an absolute secret.

So, if the Zharun had been busy fighting a beast tide for the past few days, and had never received the updated battle plans... how did they know exactly where to find the Veynar army standing in the middle of a barren, unmarked wasteland?

For a fraction of a micro-second, Chief Vane’s expression stalled.

Through his Golden Dominion sensory grid, Sol caught the sudden, erratic micro-spike in Vane’s essence. It wasn’t a spike of realization; it was a spike of pure, calculated pivot. Vane’s heart rate didn’t elevate, and his breathing didn’t hitch. He simply processed the Warchief’s sharp logic and seamlessly adjusted his mask.

Before the tension could fully snap back into hostility, Vane threw his head back and let out a rich, booming laugh.

It sounded warm, self-deprecating, and completely disarming.

”Hah! You have a sharp mind, Warchief Veylara. Truly, your eyes see more than most men.” Vane chuckled, shaking his head. ”You are entirely correct. You didn’t tell us you would be standing at the mountain pass.

Actually, after we finally dealt with the beast tide, I sent my fastest shadow-scouts rushing blindly toward the Veynar to inform you about the reason for our delay. While they were sprinting through the high ridges, they just happened to see your army marching away from your walls and heading toward the barren flats.

Seeing the grim determination of your recruits and knowing the Coalition was on the move, they assumed it was something serious.

They rushed back and reported your trajectory to me. We simply followed your dust trail here. We rushed to help you before the Coalition could trap you in the open.”

Honestly, the answer was smooth. It was incredibly logical, and it perfectly patched the hole in his story.

Hearing this, the elders let out a collective breath they didn’t know they were holding.

”Ah, the scouts saw our march,” an elder nodded, wiping the sweat from his wrinkled brow. ”Yes, yes. Moving three hundred recruits through the outer plains would definitely kick up enough dust for a seasoned scout to spot.”

”It’s a blessing from the ancestors!” another elder wept quietly. ”They saw our desperate march and came to save us. The Sacred Pact holds true!”

More talking erupted. Several of the senior elders actually stepped forward, walking forward into the open gravel to officially accept the apology.

They bowed their heads respectfully toward Chief Vane, openly thanking the Zharun for their timely arrival and their willingness to bleed for the Veynar after suffering their own tragedies.

But standing just right behind Veylara, Sol remained silent.

Beneath his black Rockhorn armor, his heart was beating with a slow, heavy, and terrifying calm. His eyes flicked across the Zharun frontline, analyzing the micro-details that the emotional, desperate Veynar elders were completely missing.

It’s too coincidental, Sol’s mind processed rapidly.

He broke the scenario down into raw, undeniable vectors.

1- The Zharun tribe is attacked by a massive beast tide. They fight for days. They are supposedly exhausted, bleeding, and stretched thin.

2- Yet, looking at the thousand warriors standing a hundred paces away, there was no sign of a recent, desperate siege. Their armors didn’t have any recent wear and tear. Their spear were sharp and clean. The giant Grave-Hounds were perfectly rested, not panting or wounded.

3- The scout excuse was technically possible, but statistically absurd. For a scout to spot the Veynar march, run all the way back to the Zharun spire, and for Vane to mobilize a thousand man warriors to march across the plains and arrive exactly at this moment, right as the Coalition was about to hit the pass from the other side... the timing required a level of omniscient precision that primitive scouts simply did not possess.

They didn’t follow our dust trail, Sol concluded coldly. They marched here on a pre-determined schedule. They somehow knew exactly where we would be, and the whole beast tide is a fabricated lie to explain their absence and lower our guard.

”Warchief. Elders,” Sol finally spoke.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a strange, heavy resonance that instantly cut through the relieved chatter in the clearing. He didn’t step forward to greet Vane; he kept his hand firmly locked on the sapphire hilt of his blade.