All the leaders of the small tribes were there.
Twenty women, each seated at the circular black stone table, elbows resting or hands clasped, their gazes fixed on the center.
All around, nearly two hundred male demons formed a silent circle, standing on the natural tiers. Not a word, not a movement — only the weight of two hundred pairs of eyes watching every motion.
The moment carried a particular heaviness. No one laughed. No one looked away. This wasn't a simple discussion: it was a negotiation for survival, where every word would weigh like a blade against the throat.
The first to speak was a demoness with split horns and scarlet skin, seated directly across from me. Her voice was deep, carried by a southern Gorge accent.
— The great clans monopolize everything. Ore, meat, the water wells… and now even our hunting paths. If we keep living apart, we will all be reduced to servitude.
