FREE USE in Primitive World

Dawn broke over the Veynar settlement in muted shades of pale gold and grey, the morning mist burning away to reveal a crisp, clear sky.

Inside the house in the Feline Spire, Sol opened his eyes. The deep rest had done its work; the lingering spiritual strain from his Layer 3 Peak stabilization had settled completely into a steady, silent reservoir within his chest.

Beside him, Kira and Zeyra were already stirring, shifting beneath the furs with quiet, half-awake murmurs before rising to gather their gear.

After a quick morning meal of dried smoked venison, essence fruits, and fresh spring water, the three stepped outside into the brisk morning air.

The whole tribe was already wide awake. The grand bonfires from the previous night had burned down to mounds of grey ash, but the atmosphere remained charged with purposeful energy. Warriors moved with practiced efficiency. Supplies were checked. Spears and shields were inspected one final time.

In the wide clearing near the palisade, the expeditionary force had assembled.

Warchief Veylara, clad in clean armor with her spear strapped across her back, stood alongside Commander Thauren. A hundred elite Veynar warriors, fully armed and organized into tight squads, were already formed up in travel ranks.

Their expressions were serious and focused like the look of people who understood that victory still required the work of consolidation.

When Veylara saw Sol, Kira, and Zeyra approach, she gave a sharp, acknowledging nod.

”We march on the Zharun first,” Veylara stated, her voice cutting clearly through the morning chill. ”It is the closest of the three territories and shares the most accessible path with our southern border. If their secondary forces catch wind of what happened in the gorge before we arrive, they may scatter or join other tribes.”

Sol adjusted the strap of the sapphire Dreadwing blade. ”Then let’s make sure they don’t get the chance.”

Without further delay, the gate swung open, and the Veynar force moved out.

The march through the jungle and dense thickets of the southern expanse took several hours. Unlike the tension-filled ambush they had marched into days prior, the Veynar moved with swift, predator-like efficiency.

Yet, as they began to crest the rocky ridge overlooking the natural basin where the Zharun tribe resided, a strange, disjointed noise drifted over the wind.

It was not the organized blare of war horns or the rhythmic chants of a fortified outpost.

It was the chaotic, screeching roar of shouting voices, frantic screams, and the crackle of uncontrolled fire. Plumes of thick, oily black smoke rose from multiple points within the wooden and stone perimeter of the Zharun settlement below.

”What in the ancestors’ names is that?” Thauren muttered, his hand immediately falling to the hilt of his broadsword as he signaled the vanguard to slow their pace.

Sol’s crimson eyes narrowed as he peered down into the settlement. The gates were smashed open, left hanging off their hinges. Inside the main streets, figures were sprinting aimlessly in every direction.

Huts were on fire, supply houses had been overturned and looted, and the sounds of weapon clashes echoed from the central plaza.

It was pure anarchy.

”Hold the line here,” Veylara commanded coldly, her eyes flashing with irritation. ”Thauren, keep the squad on the ridge. Sol, with me.”

Veylara and Sol stepped down the slope toward the ruined gatehouse. As they neared the outer palisade, a Zharun warrior... half-dressed in mismatched bone armor, carrying the looted supplies and a blood-stained short sword... came stumbling out of an alleyway, laughing hysterically before running directly into their path.

Before the man could even register the figures in front of him, Veylara moved.

SWIFT!

With a casual, effortless flick of her arm, Veylara’s essence flared. Her hand clamped around the warrior’s throat, lifting his full weight several inches off the dirt path in a fraction of a second.

The looted resources tumbled from his grip, spilling across the mud.

The warrior choked, his eyes bulging as he frantically kicked his legs, desperately trying to pry her fingers off his neck. When he felt the suffocating, unyielding density of a bona fide Layer 4 essence radiating from her grip, his face turned the color of ash.

”W-Who... who are... you...?” he stammered out, terror instantly cutting through his drunken frenzy.

Veylara’s expression remained carved from ice. She tightened her grip just enough to make his airway whistle.

”That is not important,” Veylara said, her voice dropping into a low, lethal register. ”What is important is that you tell me exactly what is happening in this tribe right now. Speak clearly... or die where you hang.”

The warrior trembled violently, his weapons slipping from his numb fingers.

”I-I’ll speak! I’ll speak!” he choked out frantically, his eyes darting between Veylara’s gaze and the dark, crimson-eyed figure standing silently beside her. ”The... the vanguard! The Chief! Chief Vane, the elders, the hounds... they went to the pass and never came back!”

He gasped for air as Veylara loosened her grip by a hair’s breadth.

”When dawn passed and no messengers arrived, the line guards and secondary captains realized what happened,” the warrior babbled, tears of terror mixing with the soot on his cheeks.

”The tribe... it completely broke! With no chief and no Layer 4 elders left to enforce order, the warriors left behind let themselves loose! Everyone... everyone went mad! Half the warriors are fighting each other trying to crown themselves the new chief, while the rest are running through the houses... looting the storehouses, burning the lineages, raping the women, and slaughtering anyone who gets in their way!”

He looked at the burning huts behind him, his voice trembling with manic desperation.

”There are no rules left! The Zharun tribe is tearing itself to pieces!”

Sol let out a quiet, raspy chuckle, looking over the chaotic, burning settlement with dry disdain.

”A pack of hyenas left without their alpha,” Sol remarked smoothly. ”They didn’t even wait for us to arrive before destroying themselves.”

Veylara looked at the burning tribe, her deep blue eyes cold and merciless. With an indifferent flick of her wrist, she twisted his neck and hurled the trembling warrior to the ground, raising her hand to signal the Veynar vanguard waiting on the ridge.

”It saves us the trouble of laying siege,” Veylara said, her spear sliding into her grip with a sharp ring. ”Let’s put an end to this circus.”