The air smelled of iron, smoke, and the faint sweetness of sandalwood. Dawn had broken over the camp of the nine tribes, casting long shadows across the field where warriors stood shoulder to shoulder. For the first time in centuries, their banners did not wave against each other but together in one place. Still, the tension was palpable. Unity had been declared, but trust was yet to be forged.
Veer knew this day would decide more than strategy or allegiance—it would decide whether the tribes truly became one or whether their fragile bond would shatter at the first clash with the empire.
He stood at the center of the circle, the sacred fire crackling at his back. Around him, the chiefs of the nine tribes had gathered. Each carried their ancestral weapon—a symbol of their people's strength and pride. Some glared at each other, some avoided each other's eyes, and some shifted uneasily, as if the ground itself might erupt beneath them.
Veer's voice rang out, deep and unwavering.
"Warriors of the nine tribes. You call yourselves brothers today, yet I see in your eyes the shadows of doubt. Doubt will break us before any enemy can. That is why, today, before Lord Shiva and before the gods of our ancestors, we will swear a blood oath. An oath that binds us as one body, one spirit, one destiny."
Murmurs rippled through the circle. A blood oath was no small ritual. It was sacred, dangerous, and unbreakable. To betray it was to curse one's bloodline.
Still, Veer pressed on. He drew his sword and held it high. The blade glinted in the morning sun like a shard of fire.
"I swear," he said, his voice echoing like thunder, "that I will not call myself king if I fail you. That I will stand in front of every spear before I let one pierce your hearts. That I will not rest until every child of our tribes walks this land free."
His words carried the weight of prophecy. He lowered the blade and drew it across his palm, crimson drops falling to the earth. The fire hissed as the blood touched it, as if even the flames bore witness.
One by one, the chiefs followed. The proud elder of the Hawk Tribe, scarred from a hundred battles. The fierce matriarch of the Serpent Tribe, her eyes like burning coals. Even the reluctant chief of the Bear Tribe, who had doubted Veer most, pressed his blade into his palm and let his blood flow.
When the ninth drop fell into the flames, the fire roared higher, blazing blue and white, a sign from the gods that the oath had been sealed.
A silence followed, heavy and profound. The warriors looked at each other differently now—not as rivals, but as bound kin.
It was Veer who broke the silence, raising his bloodied sword. "From this day forth, no tribe shall stand alone. From this day, we are not nine. We are one!"
A roar erupted from the crowd, so powerful that the birds took flight from the trees around them. Spears and swords were lifted high, drums thundered, and for the first time, unity did not feel like a fragile hope—it felt like destiny.
Yet, as the cheers filled the air, Veer caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the gathering. A cloaked figure, watching from the shadows, slipped away into the forest.
His heart tightened. He knew not everyone welcomed this unity. Somewhere beyond the trees, enemies plotted. Perhaps the empire. Perhaps traitors within.
The blood oath had bound the tribes together—but it had also painted a target on them all.
And Veer knew, with every fiber of his being, that the true test of their unity was about to begin.