FREE USE in Primitive World

For a single heartbeat, the entire settlement seemed to hold its breath.

The silence was so complete that even the wind in the high canopy seemed to pause. Hundreds of faces remained turned and eyes locked on the calm figure standing between Kira and Zeyra.

Then the name broke free like thunder.

”SOL!

SOL!

SOL!”

The chant erupted from the front ranks of warriors and spread outward in a rolling wave. Within seconds it had become a single, deafening roar that shook the timber houses and stone foundations of the settlement.

Warriors slammed their fists against their chests in perfect unison, the deep, rhythmic impacts echoing like war drums.

Women and elders dropped to one knee or pressed both palms to the ground in the deepest ancestral salutes.

Children, perched on shoulders or clinging to their parents’ legs, shouted his name with wide, shining eyes, their high voices cutting through the deeper roar of the adults.

The sound grew so loud it seemed to vibrate through the surrounding jungle itself. Birds burst from the canopy in startled flocks, black shapes wheeling against the morning sky before disappearing into the deeper green.

Even though he was internally feeling happy and exhilarating, Sol simply stood there.

A quiet, deep and genuine satisfaction moved through him. There was no denying it felt good.

Only a short time ago he had been an unknown outsider fighting for survival in a world that wanted him dead. Now an entire tribe was roaring his name hard enough to shake the jungle.

The same people who had once looked at him with suspicion or cautious respect were on their knees, voices cracking with gratitude and awe. That sharp, almost addictive rush of recognition settled warmly in his chest.

But still, he did not raise his hand or offer any grand gesture in return.

He accepted their reverence with only a calm, stoic tilt of his head, crimson eyes sweeping quietly across the sea of faces.

Seeing him remain so composed only seemed to inflame the crowd further. The chanting grew louder, more fervent. Some warriors began stamping their feet in time with the name. Others lifted their weapons high and waved wildly.

The emotional release of a people who had stared extinction in the face and somehow lived poured out of them in raw, unrestrained waves.

Beside him, Kira’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, her expression filled with a complex mixture of pride and lingering emotion.

Zeyra remained more composed, though even she could not entirely hide the faint, satisfied curve at the corner of her lips as the tribe roared his name.

The man who had arrived among them as an outsider... untested, unknown, and carrying secrets no one fully understood... had become something far greater in the span of a single blood-soaked day.

...

Soon, after the initial triumph, the heavy, sober reality of war returned.

The roaring chants and wild celebrations gradually softened as the practical work of victory began. Captured supplies were unloaded in organized piles near the storehouses.

The feverish joy of survival remained in the air, but it now shared space with quieter, heavier emotions.

While the logistical work continued, Veylara personally walked through the residential quarters of the settlement. She did not hide in her high hall.

Accompanied only by High Shaman Zephyra, Veylara moved from home to home, visiting the families of every single loyalist warrior who had fallen in the battlefield. She did not send messengers nor did she delegate the duty to subordinates. Instead she went herself.

At each doorway she stopped, straightened her posture, and bowed her head.

Before weeping mothers, she stood in silence until they were ready to speak.

Before hollow-eyed wives, she met their grief without flinching.

Before children who still did not fully understand why their fathers had not returned, she lowered herself slightly so that her eyes were closer to theirs.

At every home she took full responsibility for the loss.

”Your husband stood between our people and extinction,” she told one trembling widow, her voice steady but low. ”His name will not be forgotten. As long as the Veynar endure, your family will be provided for. That is my oath as Warchief.”

To an elderly mother who had lost her only son, she said, ”He died with his spear in hand and his face toward the enemy. The ancestors have already received him with honor. The living will carry the weight of his absence.”

Though death was an ever-present and cruel reality in the Great Orrath... a constant companion to every warrior and every family... the grief of losing a father, a son, or a brother still cut deep.

Some women collapsed against their doorframes and sobbed openly. Some fathers stood rigid and silent, jaws clenched so tightly the muscles in their necks stood out.

Some children simply stared at Veylara with wide, uncomprehending eyes while clutching the clothing of the adults around them.

Zephyra remained a quiet presence at Veylara’s side throughout. The High Shaman did not interrupt or soften the moments with empty comfort.

When invited, she stepped forward to offer brief ancestral blessings, her silver-robed figure casting long shadows in the afternoon light.

Otherwise she simply stood witness, her dark eyes carrying the accumulated weight of too many such visits across too many years.

Veylara did not rush.

She gave each family the time their loss demanded, even as the physical and spiritual exhaustion of the previous days still lingered in her own body.

By the time she finished the final visit, the sun had begun to dip toward the western ridges, and the golden light of late afternoon stretched long and thin across the settlement.

...

As twilight descended over the mountain, the grief and solemnity of the afternoon transitioned into a grand, apocalyptic celebration.

In the center of the main plaza, three massive bonfires were lit, their roaring flames leaping twenty feet into the night sky, casting a brilliant, warm orange glow over the houses.

Huge wooden tables were dragged out, groaning under the weight of roasted wild game, sweet mountain berries, and casks of rich, fermented juices.

The grand feast had begun.