The pit was no longer alive with laughter or song. Where drunken voices had once echoed, only the crackle of fire remained, snapping wood and oil fumes clinging to the air like the ghost of a threat unfulfilled. The people of the Uliro tribe stood gathered in a ring around their chief, faces pale, eyes darting between the barrels and the four young men who held them hostage with nothing more than fire and resolve.
Oisla stood above still, torch no longer in his hand, but the weight of his presence hung heavier than any weapon. His three companions flanked the ridge with watchful eyes, their stance sharp, like hounds ready to spring at the first flicker of danger.
Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, Oisla began his descent.
He climbed down the winding slope that led into the pit, boots scraping against stone, cloak brushing the walls as he moved. Each step sounded louder than the last, echoing against the silence that swallowed the valley. By the time he reached the bottom, the air itself felt taut, like a bowstring drawn and waiting to snap.
The tribe parted instinctively, creating a path toward their chief. Some averted their eyes, others stared with a mixture of awe and hatred, but none dared speak. Oisla walked through them, unflinching, his gaze fixed only on the figure waiting by the old twisted tree—Ragan, the man who had once commanded fleets and now presided over shadows.
Ragan's grip tightened on the haft of his axe, but he did not raise it. Instead, he inclined his head ever so slightly, acknowledging the boy who had forced an entire tribe to its knees without striking a single blow.
"Sit," Ragan said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. He gestured to a flat stone across from him. "If you are to claim our surrender, you will do so with words, not only fire."
Oisla sat. He rested his hands on his knees, posture straight, every movement calm, deliberate. Above, on the ridge, Xinon, Jim-Yok, and Gable tensed, their eyes scanning the crowd, ready to strike at even a twitch of betrayal. The tribe noticed it too—their enemies were not just bold, they were disciplined.
Ragan's eyes narrowed. "Tell me, boy," he began, his tone edged with curiosity sharpened by suspicion. "How did you find us? For years we have hidden. The world has forgotten the Uliro. Even the gods themselves cannot see us in this pit. We are cloaked, guarded by the shield of our ancestors. Yet here you stand. How?"
A murmur rippled through the gathered tribe. Some leaned closer, eager to hear an answer their chief himself did not know. Others whispered that perhaps the boy was a spirit, a demon, or a messenger of old gods.
Oisla met Ragan's stare, unblinking. "Your shield is strong," he said evenly, his voice low but clear. "But not unbreakable. My father knew the way."
A hush fell over the pit.
Ragan frowned. "Your father?"
Oisla nodded once. For the first time since descending, his gaze flicked toward the fire, as though memory itself had drawn his eyes.
"Before he tilled soil, before he led me through the quiet days of the farm, he walked roads most men could not imagine. He was a traveler, a seeker of places hidden and cursed, of paths guarded by more than stone and steel. He knew chants older than your drums, words that peel back illusions the way fire strips bark from wood."
He lifted his head again, and when he spoke next, the pit seemed to lean closer.
"The sacred shield you trust was not your own making. It was borrowed. Ancient. Forgotten by most, save for a few who still carry the words. My father was one of them. And before he died, he taught me."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping until only those nearest could hear, but the weight of it pressed upon them all.
"The chant to pierce the veil. The key to your hiding place."
Ragan's breath slowed, his chest rising and falling as though he had taken a blow. Around him, his warriors shifted uneasily, glancing to one another, muttering half-prayers, half-curses.
For years they had believed themselves invisible, untouchable, forgotten by the world but safe in their exile. And now this boy—this farm-bred child turned conqueror—had spoken the truth they had never wanted to face: their shield was not divine, not eternal, not theirs. It was fragile, and he had cracked it open with nothing more than breath and memory.
"You lie," one of the warriors spat suddenly, stepping forward, his hand trembling over the hilt of his dagger. "No child breaks the work of gods!"
Oisla's eyes flicked to him, cold and sharp as steel. "Would you test me?"
The warrior froze, caught not by threat but by conviction. He saw no fear in the boy's gaze, no doubt. Slowly, shame-faced, he stepped back into the crowd.
Ragan exhaled, long and heavy, his axe resting now against the ground. His gaze drifted to the flames, then back to Oisla.
"You carry the blood of a wanderer," he said, his tone less accusation now and more revelation. "A man who walked beyond walls. That blood has led you here, to us."
He came leaned closer to make conversation personal "And blood such as that will not stop here."
Oisla did not answer. He sat still, his silence more commanding than any word. Behind him, the three on the ridge shifted uneasily, the firelight painting their faces with anticipation and unease. The negotiation was not over—but it had begun with the truth.
The Uliro waited, restless, frightened, watching as their fate balanced on the words of two men: one forged by years, the other by destiny's cruel fire.