The Clan Hall of the Latians stood at the very heart of their compound, a fortress within a fortress. Its walls rose from ancient stone, blocks of gray granite drawn long ago from the northern mountains, fitted so tightly no blade could slip between them. The great bronze-bound doors were tall enough for ten men to pass beneath without bowing, and their hinges groaned like thunder when they opened. Inside, the air was warm with cedar smoke from iron braziers. Torches flickered from carved sconces high along the walls, light dancing across banners of crimson and gold. Each banner bore the phoenix of Latian, wings outstretched, its eyes fierce, as if it watched over all within.
The hall was vast, designed to hold fifty without crowding, and more if need pressed. At its center stood the great table of red sandalwood, rectangular, polished smooth until it gleamed in firelight. Upon its surface was carved the land of Latian — villages etched as tiny marks, rivers as grooves filled with silver, plains and mountains raised in relief. The carving was so detailed it seemed alive, a map not merely seen but felt by the fingers. To stand at that table was to hold the fate of their people in one's hands.
At the far end, upon a low dais, rested the clan head's seat. It was no throne of gilded arrogance but a chair of blackwood, plain, tall-backed, edged with bronze. Varun Latian sat there. He did not need to speak for the hall to know who commanded it. His presence was like a mountain: immovable, solemn, awe-inspiring. His gaze was steady, his posture unyielding, his aura so heavy that silence seemed to fall naturally around him.
To his right stood his son. Zed's dark robe was plain, his shadow staff leaned against the stone wall nearby, its shape stark in the torchlight. His eyes were calm, his jaw set, his bearing neither bowed nor boastful. He said nothing, but none needed him to speak. All present had seen him stand against the Beast King, had seen him bloodied and unbroken. Once, whispers had followed him, whispers of a talentless heir. Those whispers had been drowned by the roar of battle and silenced forever. Now he stood not as promise but as proof. He was Varun's son. He was Latian's heir.
The elders filled the hall, thirty in all. Their robes bore crimson trimmed in threads of silver or gold according to station. Some faces were lined with the marks of age, others scarred from battle, others sharp-eyed and keen. They sat around the table, hands resting upon the carved lands, each waiting for the gong.
When the deep bronze note rang, the council began.
Elder Selvar, the keeper of stores, rose first. Bent with years, his voice was thin yet clear. He placed a trembling hand upon the silver line of the River Anaru. "The families of the fallen must be given soil again. Here, by the river. The ground seems barren, but water flows. With channels, it will bear crops. Let their sacrifice be made into legacy."
Elder Maerin leaned forward, his sharp nails tapping against the sigils of villages lost to the Beast Tide. "Let survivors rebuild where their homes once stood. Ash enriches earth. To rebuild on that ground will honor their dead. To uproot them would sever their bond."
Elder Doran, broad as an ox and scarred from wars past, shifted his hand across the plains carved into the wood. "They will need hands stronger than widows and children's. We will send masons, soldiers, carpenters. No family of Latian shall raise walls alone."
Varun inclined his head once. "So it shall be."
Brushes scratched on scrolls as scribes recorded the decree.
Elder Hareth, his hair white but his eyes fierce, then traced his finger from the carved barracks near the capital to the open tracts of land. "For the crippled — divide them. Those whose arms can wield quills will teach within these walls. Their scars will forge the next generation. Those whose strength can still turn earth will take to the fields. None shall be idle. None shall be forgotten."
A murmur of assent spread. Zed gave a small nod. He had fought beside many of those men, and to see them honored in work, not discarded, was just.
Selvar spoke again, his scrolls unrolled, tallies neat. "From the spoils of war we have more than coin. But still, for each soldier fallen, ten gold bars to their family. For the maimed, five and a stipend for life. For those in logistics — teamsters, cooks, healers — who perished, three bars and food for one year. Widows with children shall receive an extra measure of grain for each child until grown."
The council hummed with agreement. Varun spoke a single word: "Done."
The brushes of the scribes moved swiftly.
Now Hareth's hand moved across the forest carving. "The carcasses of beasts slain are worth more than coin. Meat of wild beasts strengthens body and cultivator alike. In the capital, such meat is rare beyond measure. Our stores overflow. Our granaries are heavy. Our people shall eat without hunger." His finger slid to the Anaru road. "If we rebuild this path, goods may move swiftly — meat, hide, bone, fang, and crystals. The kingdom will crave them."
Elder Maerin's sharp voice cut in. "Control the price. To allies, sell fair. To rivals, sell dear. To give freely invites disdain. To hoard invites envy. Balance must hold."
Zed's voice rose then, calm and level. "Too cheap, and envy grows. Too scarce, and theft comes. We set the market, not the other way."
Murmurs of agreement rippled. Several elders' gazes rested on him with new respect. Varun's eyes shifted to his son, silent recognition.
From trade came talk of gifts. Elder Maerin tapped the borders on the carved table. "News spreads fast. Other clans will come bearing friendship. They will expect it returned."
Varun's deep voice rumbled. "We give what strengthens bonds but does not weaken us. To Leshonte, beast-bone tonics. To Veylin, hides for their smiths. To Drakehorn, meat for their warriors. To Morvain — coin, for that is their measure."
Zed added quietly, "And to the outer kingdoms, a taste, no more. Enough to remind them Latian wealth exists. Too much invites leash. Too little invites scorn."
The elders nodded, pleased. Plans were inked, gifts weighed, all measured by strength, not servility.
The matter turned, as it always did, to marriage. Elder Doran's heavy voice carried. "Already they whisper. Daughters of Veylin. Daughters of Leshonte. They will seek to bind themselves to the blood that slew a Beast King."
Eyes turned to Zed. He did not flinch, did not look away. He stood as though carved in stone, calm and unshaken. Maerin's voice softened. "The choice will be his. When the time comes, he will decide. We prepare, nothing more."
Varun's eyes turned slightly toward his son. Zed inclined his head once. The matter was left to future days.
A courier entered, scroll sealed in wax. Kneeling, he raised it high. The seal was broken, and the elder beside Varun read aloud.
"The King of Issielios, Azrael, has heard of the Beast Tide and the fall of the Beast King. He names it a deed worthy of the realm's annals. He offers recognition — knighthood, perhaps more — to the son who stood where few could stand."
A murmur swept the council. Hareth's voice was eager. "Prestige. Recognition. Let the kingdom honor us."
Selvar's head shook faintly. "Prestige, yes. But chains as well. Knighthood is leash as much as laurel."
Zed's voice was level, steady. "Let him honor, if he must. But we kneel to none but Latian. His praise changes nothing."
The elders bowed their heads. It was pride, but not arrogance. It was truth. Varun's voice was final. "We accept the honor, but not the leash."
The courier bowed low.
The last matter was inward. Maerin placed both hands upon the carving of the Phoenix Pavilion on the table. "The boy has proven himself. No reason remains to wait. Grant him full access — Library, Skill Pavilion, Armory, Phoenix Pavilion. Let him move where he wills, none to bar him, none to question. He is heir, and he must know what he inherits."
One by one, assent followed. Zed stood silent. Within, his resolve was iron. This was not indulgence — it was weight. Knowledge meant responsibility, freedom meant duty.
Varun's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "So it shall be. He is my son. He is Latian's son. All we guard, he shall guard. All we hold, he shall hold. When the time comes, he will lead, and none will question."
The hall fell silent. Then, as one, the elders struck the table with their palms. The sound thundered like a drumbeat, echoing off the stone.
The gong rang again, long and deep. The council ended.
Outside, the great doors opened. The villagers waited in the square, thin from hunger, eyes wide with hope and fear. Word spread swiftly — the granaries would be opened, land restored, homes rebuilt, the fallen honored, the living provided for. Relief surged through the crowd like sunlight breaking storm clouds. Mothers wept, children clung, men clasped hands and arms. The clan's strength was not only in sword and fire, but in stone, in bread, in unity.
The banners of the phoenix stirred in the night wind, crimson and gold catching firelight. And in every heart, a truth settled deep