The firelight wavered on the old woman's face, deepening every wrinkle, every shadow of years carried on her back. The tribe stood hushed, the drums silent now, the mead forgotten. Children clung to their mothers, men shifted uncomfortably, women held their breath.
She was small, bent, but her voice when it came was strong, clear as a bell rung in mourning.
"You call me elder. Some whisper witch. Some forget I live at all." She lifted her chin, her cloudy eyes sweeping the circle. "But I am more than that. I am the mother of the man your new leader has slain."
A ripple passed through the crowd. Heads turned, throats tightened. Oisla's heart thudded. He had expected curses, accusations, maybe even a plea for vengeance. Instead, she stood steady, her voice calm.
"I birthed him in hunger," she said simply. "The winter was cruel. My husband dead in the mines, my milk scarce. I wrapped my child in scraps of cloth, fed him boiled roots and prayers. Still, he lived."
Her lips trembled but did not falter. "He was strong. Stronger than any boy his age. When the other children fell sick, he endured. When wolves came to our huts, he drove them away with stones. He was my shield, even as a boy."
She paused, the fire crackling in the silence. Oisla felt the weight of her words pressing against him, each memory like a stone laid at his feet.
"But strength could not fight curses," she whispered. "Our town… they said it was cursed. The crops withered though the rains fell. The goats birthed stillborn. Children wasted to bone. Neighbors grew afraid, then hateful. They said our blood brought ruin. They came with fire and steel. Not soldiers—farmers, bakers, men we had shared bread with. They came to cleanse us."
Her hand trembled, clutching at her shawl. "I ran. I ran with my boy through smoke and screams. Behind us, our homes burned. Around us, our kin fell. By dawn, we were alone. Only he and I. Alone."
A soft sound escaped from the crowd, a woman's muffled sob.
She lifted her eyes, clouded but sharp with memory. "The tribe found us. Or perhaps we found them. They gave us food, fire, a place to belong. My boy grew among them, stronger still. He rose, and in time he led. And I, who once feared losing him to hunger, lost him instead to fate and steel."
Her gaze fell on Oisla then, steady, unblinking. "By your hand."
The crowd stiffened. The moment felt like a blade poised over every throat. Even Xinon shifted closer to Oisla, his hand on his sword, prepared for betrayal.
But the old woman's voice did not rise in anger. It softened, almost tender. "Do not mistake me. I do not curse you, boy. Death comes for all chiefs. My son was not perfect. He carried scars I could not heal, fears I could not chase. But he gave this tribe strength when it needed it, and in his death, he gave it to you."
The silence was heavy, filled with breath and heartbeat.
Oisla stepped forward, his cloak dragging over the dirt. He bowed his head—not low, but enough to show respect. "Your son was strong. His spirit has not been wasted."
For a long moment, their eyes held—hers clouded with years, his burning with youth. Then she nodded, slow and deliberate, and turned back to the people.
"I tell you this," she said, raising her voice so all could hear, "because my story is not mine alone. We have all lost. We have all fled. We have all been taken in by this tribe, whether by birth or by fire. My son rose from ashes, and so must we."
She sank down onto a stone, exhausted, but her words lingered in the night air, heavy as smoke.
Oisla let the silence breathe. Then he drew in a deep breath, stepped onto the high stone once more, and faced the tribe.
"You have heard her story," he began, his voice steady. "And you have seen her strength. She speaks not only for herself, not only for her son, but for every one of you. Because in truth, her tale is yours."
He spread his arms, cloak billowing slightly. The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, carving him into something more than a boy.
"All of you have been wronged. All of you have lost. Some to war, some to famine, some to greed, some to curses whispered by cowards. You have buried children. You have buried wives. You have buried brothers, fathers, chiefs. And yet—" His voice rose, sharp now, cutting. "Yet here you stand. Breathing. Enduring. Not broken."
A murmur rippled. Faces turned, nods spread.
"You think yourselves a tribe of drunkards? A band of survivors hiding in a pit?" Oisla's voice thundered. "No. You are a forge. Every wound you bear is the hammer that struck you. Every scar is the fire that shaped you. And what comes from the forge? Steel."
The crowd stirred, louder now, fists clenching.
"Steel does not ask to be bent. Steel does not break. Steel cuts. And you—" He pointed at them, his eyes blazing. "You will cut down every enemy that dares to rise before us. You will cut down the Nordits who burned our homes. You will cut down the kings who mocked us. You will cut down the world itself, until it bows!"
The roar that answered shook the ground. Drums thundered, feet stomped, voices rose in unison. Oisla! Oisla! Oisla!
He lifted his hand, and slowly the noise ebbed, though the fire in their eyes remained. His voice dropped lower, colder, but all the more powerful.
"I chose this tribe not because you are the strongest, nor the richest, nor the proudest. I chose you because you are the most dangerous. You know pain. You know hunger. You know loss. And those who know such things do not fear death. They make others fear it."
The crowd howled again, stamping, clapping, echoing his words back to him like thunder rolling through the valley.
And for the first time, Oisla felt it—not just obedience, not just belief, but fire. True loyalty, sparked by grief and kindled by purpose.
Behind him, Gable's eyes shone with pride, Xinon's jaw tightened with respect, Jim-Yok laughed with wild energy. But Oisla's gaze remained fixed on the people, his people now.
The old woman sat in silence, her face unreadable. Perhaps she mourned, perhaps she hoped. But in her stillness lay something rare: acceptance.
Oisla raised his fist high, and the people's roar shook the night.
This was no longer the tribe of Ragan.
This was the beginning of something far greater.