The morning air was salted by the sea. For the first time since Oisla had entered the tribe's world of fire, death, and ritual, there was a strange sense of motion. Not the kind of movement that comes from battle or chaos, but the steady rhythm of hands working together.
Down by the shore, where half-rotten planks lay scattered across the sand like the bones of forgotten beasts, men were bent over the skeletons of ships. The scent of tar and old timber filled the wind. Hammers rang, voices shouted orders, and sweat glistened across backs browned by years of sun.
Among them—astonishingly—was Afsul.
The man who once drowned every morning in the dregs of last night's bottle now stood shirtless, his broad chest streaked with grime, lifting entire beams with the ease of two men. His hair hung loose, his jaw set, his laughter booming every time a younger worker slipped or cursed.
It was almost unbelievable.
Oisla, standing a few paces away with Gable, Xinon, and Jim-Yok, couldn't help but allow a thin smile. The sight of Afsul sober, working, leading by example even, felt like a sign that perhaps change wasn't impossible after all.
"Look at him," Jim-Yok muttered, shading his eyes against the sun. "The same man who couldn't walk straight last week is now lifting half a ship like it's a feather."
"Maybe that's what happens when you put anger before wine," Xinon said, arms crossed, though his voice carried no mockery this time.
Afsul noticed their gaze and raised his hand in a mock salute, grinning wide. "Don't stare too long, my lords. I'll start charging you for the view of these muscles."
The workers around him laughed. Even Oisla chuckled, but only briefly—his mind was already running ahead, tracing the edges of what this meant. A man like Afsul, once thought useless, could become proof that discipline could reshape even the most broken spirit. That was more powerful than any speech.
It was then that another shadow fell over them.
A figure strode forward, taller than most, shoulders so broad he seemed to push the air aside. His skin gleamed with the sweat of fresh labor, and every step he took left the sand crunching beneath his heavy weight. His hair was tied back in a rough knot, his jaw square, his arms as thick as tree trunks.
The workers made way as he approached, whispering, some even chuckling.
"Campung," someone muttered.
"Poor lad, cursed with that name," another snickered.
The man—Campung—ignored them, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he had heard. His eyes, however, were steady, and when they landed on Oisla, he stopped.
"You're the one they're calling chief now," Campung said, his voice deep enough to rumble in his chest.
Oisla gave a short nod. "And you are… Campung?"
That earned a round of muffled laughter from the men nearby. One whistled. Another clapped his hands. "Say it again! Campung!"
The giant sighed through his nose, turning to glare at them. "Yes. My mother liked the sound. So laugh all you want. At least it's not Pigtail or One-Tooth like some of your grandfathers."
That silenced them quick enough. Oisla almost smirked but held it back, stepping forward instead.
"Well, Campung," he said, tasting the name carefully but without mockery, "what brings you to me?"
Campung studied him for a moment, then jerked his head toward the cliffs at the edge of the shore. "Follow me. There's something you should see."
The four exchanged quick glances. Jim-Yok muttered under his breath, "If he throws us off a cliff, I'll haunt you, Oisla."
But curiosity—and something else, the way Campung carried himself—pulled them forward. They followed.
The climb was steep, the kind of path that twisted between rocks and demanded steady footing. Campung led without slowing, his massive frame moving with surprising agility. Gable slipped once, cursing, but Campung reached back with one hand and hauled him up like he weighed nothing at all.
At last they reached a ledge where the sea opened wide before them. The waves below smashed against the rocks in endless fury, but here, tucked between two ridges, was a hollow—flat stone, shaded by overhanging cliffs, a natural seat where the roar of the ocean became a muted hum.
It was peaceful. Shockingly so.
"This was the old chief's spot," Campung said, lowering himself onto the stone. His voice carried no reverence, only truth. "He used to come here when the tribe pulled him too many ways. No one else knows about it. Now it's yours, if you want it."
The four stood silent for a while, taking it in. The sea stretched endless, the horizon painted in silver-blue. For once, no shouts, no hammers, no drums of fear—just the steady breath of the world.
Jim-Yok finally whistled. "Not bad. Beats sitting in that smoky cabin, that's for sure."
"More than that," Oisla murmured, his eyes on the waves. "It's a place to think."
Campung turned his gaze to him, sharp, measuring. "You think more than most chiefs. That's why I came. Strength I can give you. Muscle, too. But it's your mind that caught me. You don't just swing for the next victory—you're building something larger."
For the first time, Oisla looked at him properly. Campung wasn't just a brute, wasn't just the powerhouse his body declared him to be. There was a steadiness there, a quiet loyalty already forming.
"And you trust me?" Oisla asked.
Campung nodded once, firm. "I do."
The words landed heavier than they should have, and for a moment none of them spoke. The sea filled the silence, endless, eternal.
Then Jim-Yok broke it with a grin. "Alright, but you'll forgive me if I still laugh at your name every now and then."
Campung's eyes narrowed, though the faintest twitch of a smile pulled at his lips. "Laugh all you want. Just don't challenge me to arm wrestle, or I'll break you in half."
The others laughed, the tension easing. Even Oisla allowed himself a rare smile, one that flickered before vanishing into thought again.
Because deep inside, he knew—Campung wasn't just another ally. He was a cornerstone. And with men like this beside him, the dream of shaping an army from broken souls and battered ships no longer felt impossible.