The morning broke with a restless hum. Seabirds wheeled overhead, the surf hammered the rocks, and the tribe bustled with unusual purpose. For the first time in many years, the people weren't rising to drink or waste the day—they were preparing.
Baskets were tied shut, ropes slung across shoulders, weapons sharpened, sails unfurled.
At the center of it stood Xinon, his lean frame sharp against the brightness of the sea. The once quiet trickster now wore the poise of a man who had accepted responsibility. He was to lead the inland crew, searching for resources the tribe desperately needed to stop the spread of the sea disease.
"Travel light," Xinon commanded, voice low but carrying authority. "No excess food, no trophies, no wasted weight. We don't know how far we'll go, but we do know one thing—mainland eyes see everything. We move like shadows, or we don't move at all."
His crew nodded. Afsul, surprisingly sober, adjusted the strap of his pack and grunted. "Ain't the first time I've carried burdens heavier than myself."
Campung, who had volunteered to join, chuckled. "Just don't collapse halfway through, drunkard."
The men around laughed, and for a moment tension broke.
Xinon allowed it—discipline mattered, but so did breathing. Still, he couldn't help a small smirk, one hand brushing the hilt of his dagger. They laugh, they talk—but when the leaves break under an enemy's step, who notices first? Me.
He glanced back once, his eyes flicking toward the cabin where Oisla remained. For reasons unspoken, Oisla wasn't going with them. His path was different.
Inside the cabin, Oisla sat cross-legged, waiting. The old man—still without a name to the tribe, though whispers already traveled about him—emerged from the shadows, his movements soundless despite his bulk.
"You stayed," the old man said flatly.
"I said I would," Oisla replied. "You offered yourself as shadow. Shadows don't rest."
The old man snorted faintly but didn't argue. He stepped into the light, and Oisla noticed the countless scars webbing across his arms, some pale and ancient, others raw and livid. This was a body that had lived battles no songs ever sung.
"Training, then," the old man muttered.
Oisla nodded. He expected swords, drills, combat. Instead, the old man walked past him and sat by the doorway, legs crossed.
"Sit," he ordered.
Confused, Oisla obeyed.
Minutes passed in silence. The only sound was the sea and the muffled laughter of the tribe outside. Oisla shifted once, twice. His muscles twitched with impatience.
"What is this?" he asked at last.
"This," the old man said without opening his eyes, "is where you learn to stop being a boy playing chief."
"I already proved myself," Oisla replied.
"You proved you can win a duel by twisting rules. That's clever. But ruling, conquering, surviving—it isn't only about cleverness. A clever man burns fast. A disciplined man burns long. Which do you want to be?"
Oisla clenched his jaw. "Both."
The old man opened his eyes, and for the first time, Oisla saw a flicker of respect there.
"Then you'll bleed for both."
Training did not begin with blades. It began with stillness. The old man forced Oisla to sit in silence for hours, to breathe until his lungs felt hollow, to listen not to words but to the tremors of the world.
"Predicting men is easy when you watch their bodies," the old man murmured. "But when you hear the world, you predict storms before they rise, wars before they're declared, betrayal before it's spoken."
Oisla tried, failed, tried again. His impatience gnawed at him, but beneath the frustration he began to feel something stranger—patterns. The rhythm of waves crashing, the pause between seabirds' cries, the subtle creak of wood in the cabin as the wind pressed against it. The world wasn't noise; it was cadence.
By the time the sun began to fall, sweat beaded his brow though he hadn't moved.
Meanwhile, Xinon's group crossed the inland paths, the jungle swallowing them whole. The air was thick, damp, filled with the hum of insects. Afsul cursed under his breath, swatting at mosquitoes.
"Better than rotting in that pit of drunkards," Campung teased.
"Better than listening to you snore," Afsul shot back.
Xinon silenced them with a raised hand. He crouched, his eyes scanning the ground. Broken twigs. Fresh prints.
"We're not alone," he whispered.
The laughter died instantly. Hands went to hilts, eyes narrowed.
The journey inland wasn't going to be simple.
Back at the shore, Oisla opened his eyes. His back ached, his mind hummed with exhaustion, but his gaze was clearer somehow, as if the world itself had sharpened.
The old man studied him for a long time, then nodded once.
"You'll do," he said.
"For what?" Oisla asked.
"To carry more than one world on your shoulders."
The words hung there, heavy, cryptic, but Oisla didn't press. He knew enough now to understand that answers were earned, not given.
That night, as the inland crew made camp in the jungle and Oisla lay awake in the silent cabin, both paths felt like threads pulled taut, converging toward something inevitable.
It wasn't a battle yet. It wasn't conquest. It was the slow gathering of storms.
And Oisla, with his eyes that saw too much, was learning not only to play the game—
But to endure it.