The first thing Oisla heard was the pounding.
Loud. Heavy. Relentless.
His eyes flew open in the dim light of dawn, the chief's cabin pressing down around him. For a breath, he thought it was war—rebellion, the sound of axes slamming against the doors, of boots storming the cabin. His pulse quickened, his hand shooting toward the axe leaning by the bedside.
The pounding grew louder. Shouts rose with it, voices echoing like a tide. His companions stirred—Xinon muttering, Jim-Yok blinking blearily, Gable already on his feet.
"What is it?" Gable whispered, voice tight.
Oisla didn't answer. He was already moving, throwing the cloak around his shoulders, pushing the door open.
What he saw froze him in place.
The tribe wasn't attacking. They were celebrating.
Men pounded drums, hollow wood ringing through the air. Women clapped and sang, their voices raw but joyful. Children darted between legs, laughing. Fires blazed though the sun had barely risen, roasting meat, sending smoke curling into the pale sky. The ground shook beneath stomping feet as they danced in circles, hair flying, teeth flashing.
For a long moment, Oisla simply stood there, breath caught in his chest. He had expected hatred, defiance, daggers in the dark. Instead, he was met with wild revelry—the kind of surrender only a people bound by tradition could give.
"They're…" Gable's voice trailed off behind him, awe mixing with disbelief. "They're hailing you."
And it was true.
When Oisla stepped forward, the drums thundered louder. Hands rose, voices called his name—stumbling at first, unsure how to shape it, but growing bolder. Oisla. Oisla. Oisla.
He forced his shoulders square, his face calm. Inside, his heart hammered like a war drum.
Xinon came to his side, lips pressed tight. "You see? The ritual bound them. They're yours now."
Oisla gave no reply, though his jaw clenched. They obeyed—but obedience was not trust.
Still, he walked forward, letting them see him, letting their cheers wash over him like a tide he wasn't yet ready to swim.
---
The celebration grew through the day.
Goats were slaughtered, their blood sizzling on hot stones. Jugs of mead were passed from hand to hand, sloshing over, staining beards. The air grew thick with smoke, sweat, and song.
Warriors wrestled for sport, rolling in the dirt, laughter booming. Women braided flowers into one another's hair, painted symbols across children's cheeks. Drums never ceased; even the old clapped along, their voices raspy but proud.
Oisla sat on the high stone at the edge of the fire pit, the seat once Ragan's. His companions flanked him, though Jim-Yok was already half-drunk, laughing with a group of men who pulled him into their games. Xinon stood like a shadow, arms crossed, ever watchful. Gable moved among the people, awkward but smiling, trying to learn their names.
For a while, Oisla simply watched. Their joy was not his. Not yet. But slowly, he felt its pull, like warmth against cold skin.
Then came the voice that cut through it all.
"A leader, eh?"
The words were slurred, sharp. Heads turned. The drums faltered.
A man stumbled forward—broad-shouldered, hair tangled, eyes bloodshot. A jug dangled from his hand, half-empty. His grin was crooked, cruel.
"A boy with an axe," he sneered, pointing at Oisla. "That's what you are. A boy. And now we dance for you?" He spat into the dirt. "Madness."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some nodded uneasily. Others frowned.
Oisla rose slowly, cloak slipping from his shoulders. His eyes locked on the drunkard. "Your name."
The man smirked, swaying slightly. "Afsul."
"Afsul." Oisla let the word roll on his tongue, steady, calm. "And you doubt me."
"I don't doubt," Afsul said, lifting the jug as if in toast. "I know. You'll lead us to nothing. You'll march us drunk into the jaws of war. That's what this army is—drunkards, widows, broken men. Worthless."
The crowd shifted, uneasy. Some laughed nervously. Others watched Oisla closely, waiting to see if he would strike the man down.
But Oisla did not reach for his axe. He stepped down from the stone, moving closer, his voice carrying over the silence.
"Then tell me," he said. "What makes you so certain? Speak, Afsul. If your tongue is sharp enough to wound me, let it first wound yourself."
Afsul blinked, thrown off by the words. But the mead in his blood loosened his tongue further. His jaw set, and he lifted his voice.
"I was rich once. Richer than any man here. My house stood on the eastern cliff, high above the sea. My wife was beautiful, bright as the sun itself. I had servants, fields, cattle. My name was spoken with respect."
His hand shook, and he drank deep from the jug before slamming it against his thigh. His voice cracked as it rose.
"Then they came. The rival family. Said there was room for only one line of blood to rule our village. They burned my house. They slaughtered my servants. They—" His voice broke, rage and grief twisting his face. "They killed my wife before my eyes. And I—" His hand fell limp, jug dangling. "I lived. That was my curse. To live."
Silence weighed heavy. Even the children stopped fidgeting. Afsul's eyes glistened in the firelight, but his grin returned, bitter and broken.
"So I drink. I drink until the faces blur. I drink until the fire in my chest dies. And when it returns, I drink again. That's what your 'army' is made of, boy. Men like me. Useless."
For a long heartbeat, Oisla said nothing. His gaze held Afsul's, steady, unflinching. Then, slowly, he stepped closer, until they stood almost eye to eye.
"You're wrong."
Afsul barked a laugh. "Am I?"
"Yes," Oisla said firmly. His voice rose, strong enough to cut through the air, to carry to every ear in the circle. "You say you are broken. That you drink because you have lost everything. But listen to yourself—what is it you truly burn for? Not the mead. Not the numbness. Revenge. Justice. You joined this tribe not to rot, but to see the ones who wronged you fall. That is no weakness, Afsul. That is fire. And fire, when tempered, forges armies."
Murmurs rippled, louder this time. Afsul's drunken grin faltered, his jaw tightening.
Oisla turned, sweeping his gaze across the people. "This man believes he is alone. But is he?" His voice rang. "Raise your hands—raise them if you have lost, if you carry scars, if grief has bent your back but not broken your spirit."
At first, the crowd was still. Then, slowly, a hand rose. Another. Then another. Soon, dozens of arms lifted into the night, calloused hands reaching upward, trembling but unyielding.
Oisla's chest tightened. This was it—the truth he had sensed but not yet touched.
He raised his voice again, fierce, sharp. "Do you see? You are not drunkards. You are not useless. You are survivors. Each of you carries a story of loss, of fire, of blood. That is what unites you. That is what binds you. Not the axe, not the cloak, not even the Prince's stone. It is pain that shapes us, and vengeance that drives us forward."
The crowd roared, fists rising, voices clashing in agreement. For the first time, Oisla felt it—not just fear, not just ritual, but something warmer, stronger. Connection.
And then, as the noise swelled, a frail voice cut through it.
"I have a story."
The crowd fell silent again.
An old woman stood near the edge of the firelight, her back bent, her hair white, her eyes clouded but burning. Her hand shook as she raised it, but her voice was steady.
All eyes turned to her, the fire crackling in the hush.
And Oisla, heart hammering, knew this was no ordinary tale.