FREE USE in Primitive World

The crimson shadows lengthened across the flats as the last rays of the sun dipped behind the peaks.

A quiet, heavy calm descended upon the valley... a silence shattered only by the rhythmic crunch of boots on gravel and the low, muffled whimpers of the bound Coalition prisoners.

The thick stench of iron and burnt marrow hung heavy in the mountain air, but the chaotic roars of battle had finally given way to the organized, rhythmic sounds of a victorious army taking control.

Under Commander Thauren’s harsh and efficient direction, the surviving Veynar loyalists, despite their exhaustion and wounds, worked with grim determination.

But still it was mostly the kids who were doing most of the work, as most of the Veynar warriors were either extremely exhausted or injured to varying degrees.

They disarmed the kneeling Coalition prisoners, stripping them of their weapons, armor, and supplies, binding their wrists with heavy hemp rope.

Not a single one dared to raise his head. Whenever Sol shifted his posture or let out a dry cough, a visible tremor rippled through the ranks of the kneeling prisoners, their foreheads pressing deeper into the blood-stained chalk dust.

The dead... both enemy and loyalist... were separated. The Coalition fallen were dragged toward the outer edges to be burned, while the Veynar martyrs were laid out with honor beneath the shadow of the central limestone ridge.

Temporary shelters were hastily constructed and fires were lit across the clearing, casting a warm, flickering orange glow over the white limestone slate.

Sol sat near the edge of the central encampment, resting his back against the side of a massive, stone debris.

His sapphire blade lay across his lap, its blade wiped clean of gore but still humming faintly with residual essence.

The black armor covering his chest and arms was cracked and dented, bearing the severe scars of his brutal duel with Grand Chieftain Bruga.

Beside him sat Kira, her hands carefully wrapping a clean, damp cloth around his bruised forearms.

Her red-rimmed eyes flickered up toward his face every few seconds, filled with a mixture of quiet relief and lingering, intense worry.

”You pushed yourself too far again,” Kira murmured softly, her fingers gently smoothing down the leather straps of his vambrace. ”When Vane kicked you across the field... I thought...”

”I’m still breathing, Kira,” Sol rasped, his voice rough but steady. He leaned his head back against the wooden wagon frame, closing his eyes for a brief moment. ”It takes more than a oversized ape and a few cowardly chiefs to put me under.”

”You were dead for ten seconds, Sol,” Zeyra interjected coldly, stepping into the firelight with her twin silver daggers securely buckled back at her hips. She crossed her arms, leaning her shoulder against the stone.

”Don’t act like it was a walk through the village. If you hadn’t delivered that strike to Malphas at the exact right millisecond, we’d all be head-spikes right here.”

Sol opened one eye, looking at the sharp, stern expression on Zeyra’s face, though he didn’t miss the faint tremor in her hands.

”Results are what matter,” Sol replied with a small, raspy smirk. ”And right now, the enemies don’t have a force left to threaten the Veynar.”

Zeyra let out a quiet, exasperated huff, turning her head away, though the corner of her lips twitched slightly before she suppressed it.

A few paces away, the heavy curtain of the main command tent pulled open.

Warchief Veylara and High Shaman Zephyra stepped out into the firelight. B

oth women had changed out of their torn, blood-stained battle garb into clean, formal Veynar robes of leather and fur.

Though Veylara’s face was still slightly pale from the aftermath of the poison and the sudden surge of her sun core working again, her posture was completely upright, radiating the absolute, unyielding authority of a ruler who had survived the ultimate trial.

Zephyra walked beside her, her silver hair swaying slightly, her posture dignified and serene... though every time her eyes happened to brush past Sol, a subtle, barely perceptible flush flickered across her cheeks before she cleared her throat and looked away.

Commander Thauren immediately stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully to both women. ”Warchief. High Shaman. The perimeter is fully secured. All the prisoners are kept in the lower gorge under heavy guard.

All traitors have been executed or accounted for. Elder Thorne’s line is extinct and our wounded have been treated.”

Veylara nodded slowly, her deep blue eyes sweeping over the mountain of corpses... the giant, withered frame of Bruga, the bisected remains of the Zerith Chief, and the skinless heap that had once been Chief Vane.

”Good work, Thauren. Organize the night watches. Double the guards on the captives. They may be broken, but cornered beasts still bite.”

”Understood.” Thauren replied.

”And gather our fallen,” Veylara commanded, her authoritative voice ringing clear over the quieted valley. ”Separate our loyal brothers from the traitors. We will give our warriors the sacred flame burial atop the eastern ridge before night falls completely.

As for the traitors... burn them where they lie. Make sure their names, their lives and everything is destroyed and forgotten forever..”

”Understood!” Thauren slammed his fist against his chest and turned to carry out the orders.

Veylara and Zephyra then walked directly toward Sol’s position. She took slow, deliberate steps toward.

Zephyra followed a pace behind her, her silver-haired presence calm once more, though her dark eyes lingered on Sol with an unreadable, subtle intensity.

The surrounding Veynar warriors automatically parted for them, their eyes filled with deep reverence for their leaders and profound awe for the black-armored outsider sitting beside them.

As Veylara stopped before him, her eyes flickered briefly down toward her own chest... where the faint, lingering warmth of his hand had rested only minutes ago... before she raised her head to meet his visor directly.

It was a sensation she had never felt.

”The threat of the Coalition is permanently shattered. Veylara stated, her tone shifting into that of a true sovereign analyzing the regional board.

With Chief Vane, Chieftain Bruga, and the Zerith leader dead, the three dominant tribes surrounding our borders have been left completely headless.

Their core elites are either buried in this pass or kneeling in our ropes. So, it’s very likely that they will fracture into internal civil wars within a fortnight.