Somewhere in the Gorge of the Tribes, in the hollow of a natural amphitheater surrounded by black cliffs, a discreet fire burned. The flames devoured damp wood, casting reddish glows on the walls. The wind whistled in the heights and made the torches flicker, but here, in this secret circle, silence weighed heavy.
They were six. Six chieftains who had come in person, seated on crude chairs arranged around the brazier.
The first to rise was a slender woman, skin milky white marked with fine scars, chest half-exposed beneath a half-opened armor. She spoke in a dry voice that cracked the air like a whip:
— Lyrria Veynn, chieftain of the Ivory Fangs. Fortress of the Knife.
To her left, a tall dark-skinned figure, wide hips draped with a beast's cape thrown back, stood up. Her heavy breasts were covered only by a necklace of polished bones hanging between them. She raised her chin, her deep voice resounding:
— Zae Zahr, chieftain of the Burning Sands. Camp of the Dunes.
