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At that moment, a deeper and far more commanding voice rose from the depths of the tribe encampment. It carried the weight of authority, calm only because it was forced down upon a tide of anger.
"Enough, Kakus."
The gathered centaurs fell silent. The crowd parted of its own accord, opening a path as though guided by instinct. From the shadows emerged a towering male centaur, each of his steps measured.
His coat was a deep chestnut brown, dark and rich like weathered oak, and his muscles rippled beneath it with knot-like strength. A thick mane flowed down his neck, full and lustrous, catching the light with a faint sheen. Upon his broad forehead rested a circlet, set with a dull silver star-stone that glimmered faintly in the torchlight.
His eyes were sharp and steady, yet within them lay a clear weariness, the exhaustion of one who had carried too much for too long. There was also a helpless resignation, as though he had long since learned to endure what could never be changed. This was Trom, the current chieftain of the tribe.
He first turned his stern gaze upon the three centaurs bound in ropes before him. That single glance was enough to make them lower their heads in shame, unable to endure the weight of their leader's silent reproach.
Only then did his eyes shift toward Sargeras. In that look was a tangle of emotions, complex and difficult to name. He knew all too well what kind of man this seemingly calm wizard truly was. Behind that stillness lay a terrifying strength and a ruthlessness that could chill the marrow.
The memory of that so-called "rescue" and its "reward" lingered painfully in their hearts. To many among the tribe, it was less a salvation than a scar, etched so deep that it had never faded.
The stars? Trom almost laughed at the thought, though the smile that touched his lips was bitter. Perhaps the stars did indeed offer guidance, yet their light was not always clear, nor could their meaning always be deciphered.
What weighed on him more heavily was his own people. Too many of them were impulsive and foolish, mistaking the strength of their bodies and their gift for reading the skies as proof that fate itself could be bent beneath their spears.
But if they were truly so mighty, then why had they lingered, trapped for generations in the depths of these forests, reduced now to this single surviving bloodline?
He had no answer. He had no power to change what was written into their bones. Not even the purge of thirty years past, when the wizards had hunted them so viciously that extinction itself seemed at hand, had stripped away their pride. If such slaughter had failed to break it, how could he hope to do so in a single day, or even a single lifetime?
At last Trom's gaze fell to the parchment list clutched in the Nightingale's hand.
"My lords," he said, his voice deep and steady, carrying no trace of Kakus's fury, only the weight of reluctant compromise. "What happened tonight was our fault. It was my tribesmen who first committed the offense."
Elder Kakus snapped his head toward the chieftain, lips parting to protest, but Trom silenced him with a single glare, sharp as a blade. The entire camp fell into deathly stillness, broken only by the restless crackle of torches.
"The stars, too" Trom said at last, his tone edged with quiet bitterness. His words sounded less like an excuse and more like a fragile plank laid down to grant his tribe a shred of dignity in their submission. "They can sometimes grow dim and unclear. My people failed to grasp their true guidance. They acted of their own accord, and in their blindness, they committed a grave mistake."
He paused, as though the weight of his next words pressed heavily upon his chest. Then, with visible effort, he forced them out. "The compensation you demand… we accept."
Slowly, Trom raised his head and locked eyes with Sargeras. Those dark pupils were like bottomless wells, yet Trom refused to avert his gaze. He spoke with deliberate weight, each word struck down like an iron nail.
"The treasures in our tribe's stores… choose as you will. Whatever we have, whatever catches your eye, it is yours."
The proud head of the chieftain dipped, ever so slightly. Not in anger, not in reckless defiance, not in futile bargaining, but in clear-eyed submission. He bent because he had no other choice, because duty demanded he shoulder humiliation for the sake of his people.
Sargeras studied him in silence. His face betrayed nothing, no triumph, no satisfaction, not even the faintest flicker of pity. He remained as calm and unfeeling as ever, a man untouched by the emotions of others.
Only after a long moment did he speak again, his voice as steady as stone.
"A very wise choice." He turned slightly toward the Nightingale. "Veiliss, go and pick what you need."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added in a flat tone, "As for the Acromantula venom… later, we will fetch some fresh."
Nightingale gave a small nod, slid her wand away, and walked into the depths of the centaur settlement. Kestrel followed close behind, eyes wide with curiosity, eager to see what lay hidden in the tribe's vaults.
Sargeras' gaze returned to Trom, his eyes dark and profound. They seemed to pierce through the centaur's massive frame, stripping away flesh and sinew until nothing remained but the naked soul beneath.
Trom straightened his back, meeting that silent scrutiny without flinching, yet his exhaustion was impossible to hide. Weariness pressed at the edges of his gaze, threatening to spill over, though the iron weight of responsibility as chieftain forced him to hold it in.
"Trom…"
Sargeras' voice broke the silence. It was softer than before, stripped of the aloof detachment he so often carried. "You are a smart man. Unlike most of your kin, who cling stubbornly to their pride while wasting away in this forest, you understand the need to face reality, to weigh gain against loss."
Trom's eyes flickered faintly at those words. He offered no affirmation, yet he did not deny them either.
But Sargeras' voice was cold and precise, like a blade cutting through flesh without hesitation, laying bare the truth of his tribe's plight.
"To remain shut away in isolation, living by the hunt and by the vague whispers of the stars, is no path that can last."
Sargeras went on, his gaze sweeping over the crude huts that ringed the camp and the wary, bewildered faces of the centaurs watching from the shadows. "The resources of this forest are not without limit. And as for the gaze of the outside world… it has never truly left this land."
"What are you trying to say?" Trom's voice was low, heavy with suspicion.
"I am saying that perhaps it is time you considered opening a new road. A road that leads to exchange with the outside world."
The chieftain's brow furrowed deeply, instinctive resistance tightening his features. A flicker of doubt passed through his eyes, faint but undeniable.
"Exchange?" he echoed. With those greedy, scheming wizards? The thought itself was bitter in his mouth.
Sargeras seemed to read his doubt as easily as one reads an open book. His tone remained calm, almost patient. "It can begin with the simplest of things. An exchange of goods, if you will."
He gestured lightly toward the direction Nightingale had disappeared. "This ancient forest where you dwell holds treasures the outside world can scarcely find — rare herbs, hidden veins of ore, the materials of certain magical creatures… items like those you keep in your vaults. And in return, the outside has what you lack: finely crafted tools, salt and iron that you cannot smelt yourselves, woven cloth to withstand the cold, even knowledge of certain kinds that your people no longer keep."
For a moment, Trom's breath seemed to halt.
The picture Sargeras painted overlapped with a thought he had long suppressed but never truly silenced.
The truth was undeniable. The tribe was in decline. Their tools grew cruder year by year. Skills once known had been lost to time. Each winter grew harder to endure, and more lives were claimed by hunger and frost.
Yet he had never dared let that thought fully surface, much less shape it into action.
"A controlled point of trade," Sargeras proposed, his words carrying the cadence of temptation, soft yet insistent. "Small in scale. Overseen by you, or by someone you trust."
His gaze flicked deliberately toward the three centaurs still bound in ropes, and his meaning was clear. "You have my word… it would be nothing more than fair exchange. And you should understand this: I know your people's 'worth' better than most humans ever could."
Trom's heart pounded heavily within his chest.
The proposal was like poison, and yet it was also like medicine.
He looked deep into Sagres's eyes, those dark pools that revealed nothing. He searched for the outline of a trap, some hidden snare waiting to spring. But all he saw was calm, unfathomable stillness.
Was he to remain shut away, letting the tribe wither in silence? Or should he seize this thorn-covered vine that might, just might, lead them toward survival and renewal?
He said nothing. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft crackle of the torches, sparks rising into the night air as if time itself was burning away grain by grain.
At last, Trom lifted his head. The fatigue in his eyes had not vanished, but it was tempered now by something else, a light more complex and far heavier than simple resolve.
"My lord," he said, his gaze sliding away from those eyes that seemed to see through everything. He fixed instead on the fire, as if drawing strength from its flickering flames. "To reach out to the outside world… especially to make contact with wizards… within the tribe, that would be nothing short of a tidal wave."
He drew in a long, harsh breath, his broad chest heaving, the powerful lines of muscle tightening and loosening in turn.
"The risks… I see them clearly. Enormous, enough to swallow us whole. But the other side of what you mentioned…"
The words came out heavy, as though dragged from the depths of his chest. "The struggle for survival, the loss of our crafts, the torment of winter… these shadows have enveloped us far too long. The starlight cannot illuminate every corner. And it cannot fill the bellies of my people."
Elder Kakus let out a low, guttural growl, his voice thick with outrage, but Trom lifted a hand and silenced him before the sound could swell into open protest.
The chieftain's eyes swept over the gathered faces, each lit by the fire's glow. Some were frozen in shock, some clouded with confusion, others tight with barely contained anger. Finally, his gaze returned to Sargeras' face, as calm and unreadable as still lake.
"For the sake of the tribe's future, I am willing to take this first step. As you said, small in scale, beginning only with the exchange of goods." His throat worked as he swallowed against the dryness there. "But the counterpart can only be you. At least at the start, this must remain a secret known only to us."
Sargeras listened in silence. His expression did not shift in the slightest. Only when Trom finished did he incline his head in a faint nod.
"As for the place, I will choose one that is… 'safe,' for both sides. And as for manpower…" His gaze drifted to the centaurs standing behind Trom, each wearing a different expression: fear, suspicion, pride. A crease formed between his brows. "I dislike arrogant fools. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Rest assured," Trom answered, his voice low but firm. "I will be personally involved in this matter."
The two of them quickly settled a few initial details. When it was done, the iron weight on Trom's shoulders seemed to lift just slightly. His massive frame relaxed, only by a fraction, but enough to show the first crack in the armor of his unyielding burden.
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[Chapter End's]
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