The Uliro tribe had once been a storm on the seas. Their ships—long, lean, and crowned with dragon-headed prows—once tore through waves like knives, leaving fire on every coast they touched. Songs of their raids still haunted fisherfolk, stories of men with painted faces and voices like thunder who stole cattle, women, and gold before vanishing into the spray.
But that was years ago.
Now their ships lay half-rotted at the bottom of a pit-shaped valley near the coastal cliffs, stranded like carcasses of sea monsters too stubborn to decay. Moss crept up their hulls, planks sagged under dampness, and the sails—once proud banners of conquest—were reduced to torn rags dangling from splintered masts.
The pit itself had become their cage. Towering walls of rock rose steeply all around, a perfect hiding place for men too beaten to fight. No one ventured down without a rope, no one climbed up without leaving half their skin behind. It kept the Nordits from finding them. But it also kept them from the sea. And what was a Uliro without the sea?
By day, the tribe carried on their survival in half-hearted rhythm. Men sat around open fires, tearing dried meat with their teeth, drinking sour wine brewed from forest berries until their bellies burned. They told stories of battles that none of the younger ones had ever seen, their hands waving wide as though they still gripped spears and shields. Each story grew taller with every cup, until even the defeated began to look like kings in their own mouths.
Women moved in quieter circles. They tended to children, patched old cloaks, boiled river fish in iron pots dented by years of use. They gathered berries from the edge of the forest above the pit, always returning with woven baskets balanced on their hips. Their laughter was softer, but it was laughter all the same, a thread of normalcy in a life held together by scraps.
Children, barefoot and wild, darted between the legs of elders, their shouts echoing against the stone walls. They played games with sticks and stones, imagining themselves captains of ships that no longer sailed. In their bright eyes, the glory of the Uliro still lived, even if they had never seen it.
When night fell, the pit lit up with fire and drums. Men gathered around the flames, voices booming in songs that carried far into the cliffs above. The rhythm of the drums pounded like waves against hulls, fierce and unrelenting, even though the only sea near them now was hidden behind walls they dared not climb.
Some drank until they stumbled, collapsing into the mud with laughter still spilling from their lips. Others found warmth in fleeting pleasures, seeking to forget the bitterness of exile, if only for a night. Women carried out their own traditions, some joining in song, some dancing with bare feet slapping the dirt, their shadows long and wild against the fire.
The Uliro's nights were filled with noise, but beneath it all lay something hollow. Their joy was loud, their songs fierce, but they rang with the desperation of men clinging to an identity that was slipping away.
And at the heart of it all sat Ragan, their leader.
Ragan was broad of chest, his hair threaded with streaks of iron grey, his arms still corded with muscle though age weighed heavy on his bones. Scars painted his skin, each one a memory of battle fought on distant shores. He had once commanded ships that made kings tremble. Now, he commanded a tribe of ghosts hiding in a pit.
He did not drink. He did not sing. He sat beneath a gnarled tree whose roots clutched the rock like talons, his axe resting across his knees. His eyes scanned the pit, then the cliffs above, then the forest shadows beyond. He had lived too long among the whispers of nature not to feel its shifts.
Tonight, the forest felt strange.
The air was heavy, like the moment before a storm. The wind carried no song of birds, no hum of insects. Even the leaves seemed to fall more cautiously. Ragan felt it in his gut—the silence before danger. His fingers tightened around the haft of his axe.
Behind him, the tribe roared with laughter, voices crashing like waves against the pit walls. They did not notice the unease, or they chose not to. They had drowned their instincts long ago in wine and song.
Ragan's jaw set. He rose slowly, boots pressing into the damp soil, eyes narrowing on the rim of the pit. His heart pounded not with fear, but with recognition.
Something was coming.
At first, it was only a shadow against the silver rim of the moon. A figure, standing impossibly still on the jagged lip of the valley. The firelight below licked upward, catching the edges of a cloak stirred by the wind. For a moment, Ragan thought it was a trick of smoke. Then the figure stepped forward, and pebbles cascaded down the slope.
The laughter died. The drums stuttered into silence. One by one, heads turned upward, eyes widening, mouths falling open.
A young man stood above them. Not one of theirs. Not a Nordit scout either. His presence burned too bright, his stance too commanding. His gaze swept across the pit like a blade, and every man who met it felt suddenly smaller.
He looked no older than twenty, yet his eyes carried years far heavier than his body. He wore no crown, but he stood as if the pit itself bent beneath his will.
Ragan felt it instantly—the aura of someone who had seen fire, loss, and risen stronger from it. His instincts screamed louder now, not of danger but of change, the kind of change that ripped tribes apart and forged empires.
The stranger's voice rang out, clear and sharp, cutting the night in half.
"Surrender," he declared, each word heavy as stone, "or die where you stand."
The pit seemed to shrink around them. The fires, once warm, now threw harsh shadows that made the tribe look like caged animals. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, confusion, anger, fear. Ragan's hand gripped his axe tighter, but even he could not shake the chill that ran through his veins.
This boy—no, this leader—stood above them not as a petitioner, but as a conqueror.
The Uliro, once kings of the sea, now felt the weight of being prey.
And Oisla Faverish, son of ashes and blood, had spoken his first demand to the world.