CAIUS: Crown of Threads and Shadows

That evening, the tribe allowed Caius and Sereth to make camp near the edge of the clearing.

The mood among the warriors had shifted dramatically since the duel. The first victory had been treated as a simple test of passage, but the second had brought a dark, buried memory back to the surface.

Caius sat beside the campfire, watching the flames consume the dry wood. The rawhide bracelet around his wrist now carried another bead: a smooth, polished blue stone resting beside the white.

Rokan approached the fire and sat across from Caius. The warrior had washed away most of the blue paint from his skin, though traces of it still stained his cheeks and forehead.

For several moments, he stared into the flames in silence. Then he began to speak.

”Twenty years ago, your father entered this forest.”

Caius looked at him, remaining silent.

”I was young then,” Rokan said, his eyes fixed on the embers. ”I was not yet Blooded. I was too young to take part in the fighting, but I remember seeing him. The rest of the story was told to me by the surviving warriors who fought him, and by the elders who witnessed what happened.”

He looked directly at Caius. ”Your father was being hunted by dark elves. He entered our territory with a woman.”

Caius’s expression changed. His eyes slowly shifted toward Sereth.

The dark elf sat on the other side of the fire, his face calm and unreadable. He did not interrupt Rokan, nor did he offer an explanation.

Caius turned his attention back to the barbarian.

Rokan continued. ”At first, your father did not attack us. He stopped when our warriors blocked his path and demanded that we let him pass.”

The firelight flickered in Rokan’s eyes. ”We refused.”

Caius listened quietly.

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”We had a truce with the Nyx,” Rokan explained, his jaw tightening. ”Your father was being pursued by them, and we did not want to interfere in their blood feud. Allowing him to pass would have meant choosing his side against theirs. Your father warned us to move. We still refused.”

Caius could already sense where the story was heading. ”The battle began.”

”In the first minute, five of our warriors were dead,” Rokan said, his voice heavy with ancient grimness. ”Your father did not fight like a man trying to escape. He fought like a man who had decided that nothing in this world would stand between him and the woman beside him.”

Rokan looked back into the fire. ”He was skilled with the sword. Very skilled. But his blade was not the only weapon that brought ruin upon us.”

Caius’s eyes narrowed.

”Your father carried a warbow.”

Caius lowered his gaze, remembering the heavy human bow his father had placed in his hands, the endless drills, and the subtle shift in focus known as Far Sight—the ability to see beyond what ordinary eyes could perceive.

Rokan continued. ”Our warriors thought the forest would protect us. They thought we could surround him and force him to yield.” He shook his head softly. ”We were wrong. Some of our men fell before they even caught sight of him. Arrows struck warriors from three hundred meters away through the thickest canopy.”

Caius said nothing, but the confirmation sent a surge through his blood. It was the same Far Sight his father had passed down to him.

”The pursuit continued for five days,” Rokan said. ”Every time your father reached another ridge, our tribes attempted to block his path. Every time we surrounded him, he broke through. All the while, the dark elves pressed relentlessly from behind. We were caught between our truce and a man who refused to die.”

Rokan leaned forward, his gaze piercing. ”Your father was not simply fighting for himself. He was protecting the woman carrying his child.”

Caius lowered his eyes, his hands tightening into fists. His father had been fighting for his life before he had even drawn his first breath.

”After five days, they finally reached the edge of our territory,” Rokan said softly. ”The main tribe’s chief was waiting there to stop your father before he could cross into the Abyss. He demanded to know the name of the man who had left so much blood in our woods.”

The fire crackled softly in the stillness.

”Your father looked at him and answered.” Rokan’s eyes locked onto Caius. ”He said, ’Caius Macrae.’”

A cold chill moved through Caius’s chest.

Rokan leaned back. ”Then your father and the woman disappeared into the darkness of the chasm.”

Silence settled over the camp.

Caius stared into the dancing flames. His own name had traveled through these woods two decades before he had ever set foot in them. Not as the name of a lord, nor as a hero, but as the declaration of a father who had carved a path through five days of bloodshed to ensure his son would live.

Caius slowly raised his wrist, inspecting the rawhide band. The white bead represented his first victory. The blue bead represented his second. And beneath them lay the bloody legacy of Cullum Macrae—a story Caius was only just beginning to uncover.