The journey took three days. Through rivers that cut like silver snakes, through dense forests where sunlight barely touched the ground, Veer and his warriors pressed forward. Each step was heavy with the knowledge of what awaited them.
By the time they reached the edge of the Sacred Valley, dawn was breaking, bathing the land in hues of crimson and gold. The valley stretched wide and vast, surrounded by cliffs that rose like jagged guardians. At its center stood an ancient stone circle, weathered by centuries, etched with carvings older than memory. It was here that the Nine Tribes had sworn their oaths in ages past. It was here they came to decide their fates.
Already, banners fluttered in the wind. Hundreds of warriors from different tribes stood arrayed in clusters, their paint and armor marking their heritage—each group proud, distinct, and unwilling to blend. Drums thudded in the distance, not in unison but in chaotic rhythm, a reminder that unity was far from reality.
Veer stood at the ridge, overlooking it all. His men, though fewer, held themselves tall. They had followed him through blood and fire. Now, they would face something far more dangerous than blades—words, pride, and ambition.
Meera stepped beside him, her eyes wide. "So many… If they turn on each other here, the valley will become a grave."
Veer's jaw tightened. "Not if I can help it."
He descended the slope. Murmurs spread as he entered the valley, the youngest of all leaders, his presence unexpected to some, unwelcome to others. Yet there was no denying the aura around him—calm, unbending, as though the earth itself walked in his steps.
At the center, the leaders of the Nine Tribes gathered.
There was Raghu of the Iron Wolf Clan, broad as an ox, his chest bare, scars painted white across his body. His people were warriors through and through, and his glare was as sharp as the axes they carried.
There was Eshwari of the River Serpents, her robes flowing like water, her forehead marked with blue dye. She was known for her cunning tongue and her uncanny ability to read hearts like open books.
There was Varun of the Mountain Eagles, his cloak lined with feathers, his eyes sharp, always watching from above as if the ground was beneath him.
And six more, each bearing their own pride, their own wounds, their own refusal to kneel.
Raghu's voice boomed as soon as Veer stepped forward. "So the orphan boy dares to walk among chiefs and queens." He spat on the ground. "What right do you have here?"
Murmurs rose, some mocking, some curious.
Veer met his gaze without flinching. "The same right as any who bleeds for their people." His voice carried strong, steady, cutting through the noise. "I have fought the raiders you ignored. I have buried brothers and sisters while others hid behind borders. If unity is what this council seeks, then I will speak as one who has lived its necessity."
Eshwari's lips curved into a sly smile. "Bold words for one so young. But words are wind, Veer of no-tribe. Can you prove your worth with more than speeches?"
The circle waited. Silence fell, heavy as stone.
Veer drew a slow breath. He knew this was no ordinary test. To falter here was to condemn not just himself but the hope of uniting them all. He placed his hand on the earth, feeling its pulse, steady and ancient. The fire within him—the gift of Shiva, the guidance of Vakya—stirred.
When he looked up, his eyes burned with unshaken resolve. "I will prove it. Not with empty boasts, but with deeds. If the Nine Tribes wish to measure me, then give me your trials. I will face them all."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some laughed, some whispered. But none could deny the courage in his stance.
Raghu smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Very well, boy. The valley has heard you. Tomorrow, your trials begin. Survive them, and maybe—just maybe—you will earn a seat among us."
The drums thundered once more, louder now, echoing off the cliffs. The storm of unity and betrayal had begun.
And Veer knew: tomorrow, the Sacred Valley would test not only his strength—but his soul.