The sea had always been both blessing and curse. It fed the tribe, brought trade in better years, and carried their ancestors across the waves. But now it carried something else.
A sickness.
It began with the fishermen, men who returned pale and trembling from the waters. They complained of fever, their skin breaking into blotches like burns. Soon their throats swelled, their eyes yellowed, and their bodies grew thin as if the sea itself was eating them alive from within.
By the third day, it was no longer just the fishermen. Women hauling water from the shore fell ill. Children who played too close to the tide coughed blood into their hands. The disease spread like salt in water—quiet, invisible, unstoppable.
The air along the huts stank of sickness now. Flies buzzed over bowls left untouched. Mothers sat weeping with limp children in their arms, their voices broken by fear. Men who had once shouted and boasted now spoke in whispers, as if raising their voice might invite the curse upon them.
Inside the newly claimed chief's cabin, Oisla stood in silence. He had seen blood, seen fire, seen war. But this… this was a slower terror. One blade could not cut it down.
Campung leaned against the wall, his massive frame shadowing the doorway. "It's the sea disease," he said quietly. "I've seen it once before. Years ago, when another clan tried to ride the waves too far east. Half of them never came back."
"Is there a cure?" Oisla asked.
Campung nodded grimly. "Yes. But it lies inland. Roots, herbs, minerals. Simple things, but not found here. We'll need someone to go."
The four companions exchanged glances. Jim-Yok looked ready to volunteer, but Xinon spoke first, his voice sharp.
"Then I'll go."
Oisla's eyes flicked to him. "You?"
Xinon's mouth quirked in his usual half-smile, but his eyes were serious. "You need stealth for this. The mainland isn't safe. The Nordits patrol the roads, raiders lurk in the forests, and any caravan is watched. But I can move unseen."
"And if you're caught?" Gable asked, his tone heavy.
Xinon shrugged, his grin widening though his gaze didn't waver. "Then I'll talk my way out. Or stab my way out. Either works."
Oisla studied him for a long moment. There was no doubt in Xinon's voice, only certainty. He was right—this was his role. Where others would draw attention, Xinon could vanish like smoke.
"Take only who you trust," Oisla said finally. "And move fast. Every day we wait, more of our people will die."
Xinon nodded once. "I'll leave before dawn."
The room grew silent again. The crackle of fire was the only sound until Campung cleared his throat, his deep voice cutting through.
"There is… another matter," he said.
Oisla turned. "What matter?"
Campung's eyes narrowed slightly, as though measuring the weight of his next words. "An old man. He lives near the cliffs, beyond the caves. Most keep away from him, call him cursed. But I have seen him… he is no ordinary elder."
"Explain."
Campung's voice dropped low. "His body. Even in age, it is like stone. Muscles stronger than men half his years. He trains alone, each morning, as though waiting for something—or someone. He frightens the children, but I do not think it is fear he carries. It is… restraint."
Jim-Yok snorted. "So you're saying a wrinkled strongman is hiding at the edge of the world? What's next, Campung, a sea god in the caves?"
But Oisla did not laugh. His eyes sharpened, curiosity burning. In war, power came in many forms. Sometimes it was armies. Sometimes it was faith. And sometimes it was one man, the right man, in the right place.
"Take me to him," Oisla said.
The cliffs were quiet at dusk. The roar of the sea below softened into a constant hum, broken only by gulls circling high above. Campung led the way through a narrow path that twisted between jagged rocks.
They reached a clearing carved into the stone, where a small hut leaned against the cliff wall. Outside, an old man stood bare-chested, striking the air with slow, deliberate movements. His skin was weathered, his hair streaked with grey, but his body…
It was a map of muscle. Corded arms, chest broad and solid, legs rooted deep into the earth. Each motion he made was precise, controlled, like the tide itself obeyed his rhythm.
Oisla halted, breath caught. He had seen warriors his whole life, men of brute force and trained killers alike. But this man was something else. Age had not broken him—it had honed him.
The old man stopped mid-strike. Slowly, he turned, eyes narrowing at the intruders. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, and when it fell on Oisla, it felt like a blade pressed to his throat.
"You shouldn't be here," the old man said. His voice was gravel, rough with years, yet steady.
Oisla stepped forward, holding that gaze. "I am the tribe's leader now. If you live on this land, then you are under my law."
The old man's lips curled faintly, not in a smile but in dismissal. "Then your law is weak. Leave."
The words cut like a stone dropped into silence.
Campung shifted uneasily beside Oisla, but the young chief did not move. He simply stared at the old man, his mind already whirring, questions forming, possibilities spreading.
Who was this man? Why did he hide here? And why did his presence feel heavier than the sickness sweeping the tribe?
Oisla did not yet know the answers. But deep inside, he understood one thing: the old man was not a stranger. He was a storm waiting to break.
And Oisla had just stepped into its path.