The silence that followed Oisla's words was thin as glass, fragile enough to shatter at a whisper. For a heartbeat, the entire pit seemed frozen. Flames hissed in the wind, children pressed against their mothers, and old warriors clenched their fists as though gripping memories instead of weapons.
Then it broke.
Laughter erupted, first in scattered bursts, then swelling into a raucous chorus. Warriors slapped their thighs, wine sloshed from clay cups, and jeers rained upward like stones hurled at the figure on the cliff.
"A boy!" one barked, teeth flashing through a tangle of beard. "A boy dares to command us?"
Another leaned back, arms spread, drunk enough to mock the gods themselves. "Hear him! Hear the mighty child! He thinks he's the sea!"
Even the women giggled nervously, though their eyes never left the stranger above. Children mimicked his stance, puffing out their chests, raising imaginary swords. The pit had seen threats before. None had come true.
But Ragan, sitting beneath his tree, did not laugh. His eyes, narrowed and unblinking, stayed fixed on the figure. He knew better than the rest. And deep in his chest, a heaviness settled.
The boy did not flinch at the mockery. His gaze remained steady, his stance firm. He let the laughter swell, let it echo against the rock walls until it seemed almost unstoppable. And then—he raised his hand.
From the shadows behind him emerged three more figures.
Xinon was first, his lean frame carrying the unmistakable weight of barrels. The sound of sloshing liquid marked every step he took. Behind him, Jim-Yok hauled another, his usual grin now sharpened into something feral. Gable came last, his face pale but determined, hands gripping the rim of his own burden.
Oil drums. Heavy, iron-bound, and full.
The laughter faltered, like a song stumbling on its own rhythm. Murmurs slid through the crowd. Men leaned forward, squinting. Some rose unsteadily, their drunken haze thinning.
And then came the torch.
Oisla lowered it slowly, flame licking the night air, reflected in a hundred wide eyes below. He held it like a verdict, a promise hanging in the balance.
The pit, their sanctuary, their hiding place—it had always been their shield. But every shield could be turned into a trap. The barrels, if set ablaze, would not just burn. In a place shaped like a bowl, fire would whirl, feed on itself, consume everything caught inside.
The realization spread like a disease, starting in whispers and erupting in gasps. The mockery choked in throats, replaced by the sound of feet scraping against stone, mothers clutching children closer, warriors reaching for weapons but hesitating.
Oisla's voice cut through it all, sharp and merciless.
"This place you call refuge," he said, lowering the torch toward the barrel at his feet, "is your grave the moment I decide it."
Jim-Yok kicked at one of the barrels, sending it clanging forward. Oil sloshed, heavy, eager. Xinon's eyes gleamed, daring anyone to move. Gable, though his hands shook, stood firm, his barrel lined beside the others like a row of loaded cannons.
The tribe froze. Their pit, their safety, was revealed for what it was: a coffin waiting to be lit.
Ragan rose at last, his broad frame casting a shadow that stretched across the firelit earth. His people turned to him instinctively, their voices rising, some pleading, some snarling, all desperate. He silenced them with a raised hand.
His eyes locked on the young man above. There was no laughter in them. No drunken haze. Only the grim recognition of power—raw, fearless, and absolute.
"What is it you want?" Ragan's voice carried, deep as a drumbeat, commanding even in surrender's edge.
Oisla's torch burned brighter in the night air, sparks drifting into the dark like fallen stars. He did not smile. He did not boast. His answer was as simple as his arrival.
"Your surrender."
The pit was silent again. This time, no one dared laugh.
The Uliro were proud, fierce, broken perhaps, but not cowards. Yet as the fire crackled and the barrels stood ready, pride meant nothing against the thought of children screaming in flames, of wives turned to ash, of warriors dying not in battle but like animals in a trap.
Whispers turned to nods, nods to murmurs of agreement. Fear, the truest language, had spoken where no words could.
Ragan's jaw tightened. He looked once at his people—the women clutching their babes, the warriors torn between rage and terror, the youth too young to know what surrender meant. And then he looked back at Oisla.
Slowly, heavily, like a mountain lowering itself, Ragan nodded.
The Uliro had bent.
A hush swept the pit, heavy with disbelief and relief, fear and fury. Some men collapsed onto their knees, others spat into the dirt, but none dared raise their voice.
Ragan lifted his chin. His voice, though stripped of defiance, still rang with dignity.
"Then it is done. The Uliro tribe yields."
Oisla lifted the torch higher, then, without a word, passed it back to Jim-Yok. The barrels remained where they were, silent and waiting, but untouched. The fire had not been needed—not yet. The promise of it was enough.
Above, the young conqueror stood as though carved from stone, his cloak snapping in the night wind, the flames below painting his face in shadow and fire. He had not fought. He had not bled. Yet he had won.
And though the tribe bowed in silence, one truth struck deeper than any blade: this was only the beginning.