Arthur's brow furrowed. "Unclaimed land doesn't stay unclaimed. Not unless something keeps it that way."
Darven gave a single nod. "Exactly. They say it's because this ground belonged to the Tenrec."
The name carried weight.
Even some villagers nearby crossed themselves or turned their backs.
Fazer's eyes lit with curiosity. "Tenrec? Who were they?"
Darven's gaze lingered on him before turning back to Arthur. "A rival clan. Long ago, before the curse, before we scattered. The Tenrec could summon two spiritual weapons at once. A sword in each hand. A bow and a spear. Power no one else could touch."
A farmer spat in the dirt. "Dual-souled devils," he muttered.
Fazer's mouth opened slightly, wonder breaking through despite his mother's hand tightening on his shoulder. "Two weapons? At the same time?"
Abigail bent to him, her voice low, firm. "Don't look at it like it's some toy. Power always takes its due."
Darven went on. "The Tenrec built their stronghold here—village, temple, fortress. But their hunger swallowed them. Some say they turned on each other, fighting until only ashes were left. Others say the heavens split them apart for daring too much. No one knows what's truth, what's shadow."
A silence followed, heavier than before. Even the villagers lowered their eyes.
Arthur finally spoke, voice level. "Whatever the truth, it explains why no kingdom claims this soil. Men fear ghosts, even when they're long gone."
Abigail's gaze fixed on him. "And you? Do you fear them?"
Arthur didn't look at her. He watched the tree line, where the forest pressed close and dark. "I fear leaving our people rootless. If the Tenrec fell here, let their bones serve as warning. But this ground—" his voice hardened "—this ground may yet be ours."
Fazer's heart pounded. The villagers' whispers, Darven's story, his father's words—he held them all at once, heavy and bright.
The Tenrec were gone, but their shadow still clung to the soil.
And now, the Fossa stood where they had fallen.
Night fell heavy over Porter Village.
The small square, ringed by crooked houses, flickered with lamplight.
A table had been dragged into the open, its legs uneven on the packed earth.
Around it sat Arthur, Abigail, Darven, and several of the elder villagers.
Others lingered at the edges, too curious—or too afraid—to stay away.
Fazer kept close to Abigail, standing just behind her chair.
The firelight caught his crimson eyes, but in the shifting glow he looked more boy than warrior.
He listened hard, chest tight, because he knew these words would decide where his family slept tomorrow.
Arthur leaned forward, forearms braced on the rough wood.
His presence filled the table even in silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. "The Fossa don't need charity. We'll work the fields. We'll guard the gates. In return, we need shelter. That's all."
The headman of the village—a wiry man named Harven, his beard gone white at the tips—shook his head slowly. "Shelter isn't 'all,' Arthur Fossa.
Shelter means sharing.
Sharing food when harvests fail.
Sharing walls when soldiers march.
And if this land is what your man says it is—" he nodded toward Darven "—sharing curses too."
A murmur rippled through the villagers gathered around. Words like cursed had a way of clinging.
Abigail's voice cut through, calm but edged. "Better a curse that fights at your side than silence when enemies come."
One of the villagers, a stout woman with arms roped in muscle, snorted. "And what happens when those enemies come because of you?
Fazer's fists tightened at his sides, but Abigail touched his wrist, keeping him still.
Arthur met the woman's stare without flinching. "Reason or no, those knights are gone. The one who sent them is dead. For now, danger looks elsewhere."
Darven shifted in his seat, his tone quieter but firm. "For now. But it won't last. News runs fast, even faster when gold rides with it. The Fossa can't stay hidden forever. Not here, not anywhere."
Abigail's eyes flicked sharply to him. "So you'd have us keep running? You think these children—" her hand brushed Fazer's sleeve "—can grow strong with nothing under their feet but roads?"
Darven didn't answer right away.
He looked at Arthur, as though weighing whether to speak freely in front of the boy. Then he said, "Running kept us alive this long."
Arthur's gaze swept across the table, then the crowd behind it.
His voice dropped lower, but it carried. "Alive is not enough. My clan will not die on the road. If this land truly has no master, then we will root ourselves here."
The villagers stirred. Some shifted uncomfortably, some nodded almost despite themselves.
Harven leaned back, the lines around his mouth deepening. "You talk of roots. But roots take time. And time brings eyes—tax collectors, soldiers, worse. Once they see crimson eyes in their fields, they'll come. What will you do then, Arthur Fossa?"
Arthur didn't blink. "What I've always done. Protect my own."
For a moment the fire popped, filling the silence.
Abigail's fingers brushed her son's hair absently, though her eyes stayed on the table. "You all speak as if we have a choice between danger and safety. There's no safety. Not for us, not for them." She gestured to the villagers. "The only choice is whether we face it alone—or together."
That broke the stillness.
Voices rose—villagers arguing among themselves.
Some feared more war, more blood.
Others saw strength in numbers, hope where there had been none.
Fazer stood frozen in the noise, eyes flicking from his father's still face to the headman's furrowed brow, to the villagers whispering curses and prayers.
He understood only this: no matter which way the choice went, their lives would change here, in this village built on the bones of another clan.
Arthur raised one hand, and the sound ebbed away.
His crimson eyes caught the firelight, hard and unyielding. "Think on it. Dawn will come soon enough. When it does, the Fossa will work your fields, guard your gates. We'll show you our worth. After that—" his mouth tightened "—you can decide whether you want us gone."
He pushed back from the table, the chair scraping on dirt.
Abigail rose with him, one hand steady on Fazer's shoulder.
Darven followed, his expression unreadable.
Behind them, the villagers' voices rose again, split between fear and reluctant hope.
Fazer glanced back once, his young face drawn in the firelight, and thought: whatever they decided, tomorrow the Fossa's hands would be in this soil.