The council hall of the Nine Tribes was a vast semicircle of stone, lit by hundreds of oil lamps whose flames wavered in the morning air. The walls were carved with scenes of ancient unity—tribal chiefs standing shoulder to shoulder, spears raised toward the sky. Yet, as Veer stepped into the hall, he felt the tension so thick it almost pressed against his skin. This was not the unity of old. It was a gathering where trust was thinner than parchment, and every face was a mask.
The chieftains were already seated on their carved thrones, arranged in a half-ring before the central dais. Their guards stood at the edges like silent shadows, their eyes scanning every movement. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sharper—perhaps the residue of burnt incense meant to ward off evil.
Veer's footsteps echoed as he approached the center. The hall quieted. Some eyes looked at him with hope, others with suspicion, and a few with outright hostility. His own warriors stood at the far back, weapons sheathed but hands tense, ready if things turned ugly.
"Veer of the Hill Tribe," boomed Chief Adhir of the River Clan, a man with a beard like a waterfall and eyes that glimmered with both wisdom and weariness. "You called for this council. Speak."
Veer bowed slightly, his gaze steady. "I did not call it for myself, but for all of us. The signs are clear—foreign forces are stirring at our borders. The raiders we defeated last moon were only scouts. The real threat is marching toward us."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Some exchanged uneasy glances; others scoffed as if they'd heard the same warnings too many times.
"And why," asked Chief Daran of the Flame Tribe, his voice sharp as a blade, "should we believe you? You speak of threats, yet your power grows with each passing day. Perhaps this is just a move to frighten us into uniting under your banner."
Veer's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep calm. "If I wanted to rule you by fear, Chief Daran, I would have brought my warriors to this hall with their spears drawn. I came with words, because words can unite us before blood is spilled."
Chief Amaya of the Wind Tribe leaned forward, her silver hair shimmering in the lamplight. "What proof do you have of this coming invasion?"
Veer stepped to the center, signaling one of his men. A warrior strode forward, unrolling a piece of parchment—maps inked with unfamiliar markings, captured from the raiders. Veer pointed to the strange symbols. "This is the war script of the Iron-Blood Legion. They are not traders, not mere brigands. They are conquerors. And they are days away from reaching our lowlands."
A hush fell. The Iron-Blood Legion was a name whispered in border villages, a tale told to scare children into staying close to the fire. Few had seen them and lived.
But then came the voice Veer had been expecting—soft, almost reasonable, yet dripping with poison.
"Or perhaps," said Chief Varric of the Stone Tribe, "you have fabricated these maps to suit your ambitions. You speak of unity, but unity under whom? We are all chiefs here. Will you be content to fight as an equal, or do you seek to crown yourself king?"
Veer met Varric's gaze without flinching. "If a crown would save our people from destruction, I would wear it. But I do not seek it for pride. I seek only that we live to see another sunrise."
The murmurs grew into arguments. Voices clashed like swords. Some chiefs demanded immediate action; others accused Veer of plotting to undermine their autonomy. It was a storm, and Veer stood in the middle, holding his ground.
Then, from the far end of the hall, an old voice cut through the noise like a single bell in a fog.
"Enough."
The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to the speaker—Elder Rayan, the last living member of the original Nine Tribes treaty. His wrinkled hands rested on a carved staff, and his gaze, though clouded with age, still burned with authority.
"I have seen enough winters to know that disunity is a sharper killer than any foreign army," he said. "Veer speaks truth—whether you trust him or not. The Iron-Blood Legion will not care for our rivalries. They will burn our villages, slaughter our kin, and leave our bones to whiten in the sun."
Several chiefs shifted uncomfortably.
Elder Rayan turned to Veer. "But truth alone is not enough. If you wish to lead in this war, you must prove you can bind the Nine Tribes together—not with fear, nor with promises, but with deeds. Will you swear before us all, on the honor of your ancestors, that you will not seize power once the war is done?"
Veer hesitated. The weight of the moment pressed on him. If he swore, it would limit his ability to unite the tribes under a permanent rule. But if he refused, they might splinter before the war even began.
Slowly, he stepped forward, placing a hand over his heart. "I swear, before the gods and the spirits of my ancestors, that I will not claim the Nine Tribes as my own when the war is over—unless you all choose me by your own free will."
The words hung in the air. Some chiefs nodded in approval. Others seemed skeptical, but the Elder's nod carried great weight.
"Then," Elder Rayan declared, "we prepare for war."
But as the council began its hurried planning, Veer caught the faintest of smirks from Chief Varric—a smirk that told him the danger was not only from outside the tribes. Somewhere in these stone walls, an enemy was already plotting his downfall.