That night, in the Highmountain tribe's settlement.
Leaving his father's main tent, Torun didn't head for his own quarters. Instead, he walked alone to the edge of the camp, turning his back to the fires and facing the rolling mountains and the bright, cold moon, letting his mind go blissfully blank.
Normally, this time of night he'd be back in his own room, sketching out a fresh draft for tomorrow's discussions with Luger, Danche, Anno, and the rest.
But tonight, he just couldn't be bothered. He was spent. He wanted to savor this one slice of peace that belonged only to him—out here, and only at this hour, did he feel truly free.
And how could he not be drained? This crisis had come out of nowhere—so much stress, so many burdens, all of it landing right on his shoulders.
His father was old now, and next year Torun would officially take the chief's seat. That meant he had to shoulder the whole load—and keep it steady until power fully passed in his hands.
It was a heavy weight to bear.
That alone would be plenty, but what really weighed him down was that the Highmountain tribe wasn't even united. Other issues he could handle, but his brothers—those reckless fools—were always scheming to steal power from his hands.
He'd smashed their ambitions once before, shut them up for a while, but now that the tribe was fumbling through hard times, they were piping up again, gossiping about how attacking Rockseeker's Outpost had been too rash, how they should've united and wiped out the demons instead.
Snide, manipulative, always hinting it was Torun's fault. If only they were in charge, it would all be different—they'd have done everything better.
Torun had nothing but contempt for those opinions.
How is the demon mess supposed to be my fault? How ridiculous.
Well, just you wait. Once this demon war is over and I'm chief, I'll settle accounts. I'll stick you all with the hardest, grimmest, most thankless jobs in the tribe—the kind of work that makes you wish you'd never been born.
He nursed that nasty thought—and then, suddenly, footsteps sounded behind him.
Torun whipped around, face dark. "Who goes there?!"
He saw a familiar white-haired silhouette holding up his hands, a charming (and shameless) grin on that annoyingly handsome face. "Just me—Nigel Charles."
"What brings you out here? You don't look like you're in a great mood."
Torun glared at the man, fists clenching—the bitterness of losing his intended to Charles almost overflowed in a red-hot urge to grab his greataxe and rip him limb from limb.
But he swallowed it down. This wasn't the time for a personal grudge—not with so much at stake.
Still, the minotaur scowled, looking down. "You should go, Mr. Charles. You're not welcome here tonight."
Charles let his hands fall, looking conflicted, then finally sighed. "Look, it's a misunderstanding. There's nothing going on between me and Nidalee. You believe me?"
Torun's head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm. "For real?"
But the scowl snapped right back. "Is this supposed to be a joke?"
Charles's expression stayed dead serious. "I mean it. Didn't you notice? All meeting long, I was holding Anno's hand."
Torun's eyes flickered in shock. Charles went on, "We're the actual couple. That day, I only said otherwise because Nidalee needed my help—she was in a tight spot and I wanted to help her out."
He shrugged apologetically. "Back then, we barely knew each other. I had no idea you two had history—I just said what seemed right at the time."
Torun's throat worked, a rush of hope making his whole body tremble.
If that's true, then when this war is done, I can finally talk to Ilarode—maybe I really can marry Nidalee!
This time, I need to act fast—no more letting her slip away!
The excitement practically shook him to his hooves, and his expression toward Charles softened a lot. Noticing the shift, Charles grinned playfully, "Glad we cleared that up. So we're good now, right?"
Torun quickly straightened his face. "I'm not the type to hold a petty grudge. I'm just worried—we have a lot of young hotheads here, guys who'd lash out and treat you like an enemy."
"I'm worried about your safety. It's not exactly safe out here."
Charles didn't seem fazed. "Really? I've always felt your aunties here are super welcoming."
He meant it too—walking through camp, Charles noticed the female minotaurs treated them with unusual friendliness.
A century-old feud is just so much dust in the wind. The pain of having your home destroyed by demons last month? That's what really matters.
Plus, with Ines always trying to seduce their men and mess up their families, Charles bringing her down and exposing her true colors won him major points with all the tribe's women.
It's also probably why he could stroll through the Highmountain camp unscathed tonight and find Torun alone.
"Anyway," Charles said, settling beside him, pulling out two glass cups and a bottle of red wine from his Bag of Holding, pouring each a drink, "you sick of paperwork, too?"
This was top-shelf stuff Rahman had given him, sweet, smooth, and not too strong—perfect for sipping while relaxing alone, not just cutting greasy roasted meats.
Last time he ate with that blue dragon, Charles had praised it, and Rahman had immediately sent a secretary to deliver fifty big barrels—more than he could drink in a lifetime.
Now was as good a time as ever to dip into the stash—might as well use it to build rapport.
And maybe, Charles thought, it'd help him sidle around behind the minotaur…
But Torun didn't take the cup right away; he looked down and grunted instead. "What's your angle, Seinites?"
Charles just chuckled. "Just trying to smooth things over between allies. If we head into battle against the demons with bad blood between us, that's a recipe for disaster, don't you think?"
He set the cups in front of Torun. "Have a drink."
Torun paused, then took a glass and clinked it against Charles's before knocking it back in one big gulp.
Charles smiled and followed suit.
"Too light. Girl's wine," the minotaur sneered when he was done. "Real men should drink something strong—like what the dwarves make. That's our kind of booze."
He shot Charles a smug look, showing off his powerful muscles, just in case anyone had missed the point.
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