Dawn did not arrive quietly.
As the first sunrays spilled over the thatched roofs of the village, a sharp cry split the morning air.
High above the streets, a spirit-bird burst into shimmering blue light. Its wings scattered glowing feathers that drifted downward like sparks. Each feather dissolved as it touched the ground, releasing whispered words into every home, every alley, every listening ear.
The Chief has issued a decree.
The boy from the shore is under his protection.
No hand shall be raised against him without judgment.
By the time the last feather faded, the village was already buzzing.
Momon stood alone in his private chamber.
It was not a throne room, but a place of quiet authority — walls carved from black stone veined with glowing spirit-lines, shelves filled with sealed scrolls, monster cores floating in glass orbs, and ancient bone charms hanging from iron chains across the ceiling. The air itself pulsed faintly, as if the room were breathing.
He stood before a massive stone table covered in maps, reports, and spiritual seals.
A shadow knelt at the entrance.
"Chief," a low voice said. "The elders have arrived. They await you in the throne hall."
Turak — the Vice Chief — rose from his kneel.
Momon's jaw tightened.
"They did not wait for summons," he said coldly.
"No, my lord."
A pulse of pressure rolled through the chamber, rattling the hanging charms.
"Then they came for a reason."
He turned.
"Let's hear it."
The throne hall was already filled.
Four figures stood in a half-circle, cloaked in long ceremonial garments etched with authority runes. Their spiritual auras were unmistakably First Grade — calm, controlled, ancient.
They bowed as Momon entered.
"My Chief," said the eldest among them, his voice like wind over stone — High Shaman Orun Vale, the spiritual pillar of the village, keeper of ancient rites, speaker to spirits. "We apologize for convening a council without your summons."
Momon ignored the courtesy and took his seat.
"You did not come to apologize," he said flatly. "You came to challenge my decree."
The elders exchanged brief glances.
Orun Vale stepped forward.
"The boy from the shore," he said. "His origins are unknown. Such existences have brought calamity before. By law, this matter requires joint council judgment."
Momon's eyes darkened.
"You want him dead."
"We want the village safe," another elder replied calmly — Elder Korrin Hale, master of external affairs, negotiator between villages. "If his presence invites disaster, then his execution would prevent future bloodshed."
Momon exhaled slowly.
The air changed.
Pressure flooded the hall.
Stone groaned beneath their feet.
Invisible weight pressed down — not violently, but unmistakably.
Even First Grades stiffened.
Torches trembled.
"Say it plainly," Momon said quietly.
A woman stepped forward — Elder Seris Moira, High Healer of the village, whose hands preserved life… and whose voice had sealed Caelumn's conditional death. Her expression remained calm, but her eyes were firm.
"We do not demand his death," she said. "But if the boy causes harm — if even a single life is endangered — we will eliminate him. With or without your permission."
Silence fell.
Then Momon laughed once — low, sharp, dangerous.
"Do whatever you want," he said, turning away. "Get out of my hall."
He passed through them, his aura flaring once more before vanishing down the corridor.
Turak hesitated, about to follow — but Orun Vale spoke.
"You should make him see reason," the elder said calmly.
Turak paused.
Then nodded.
"I will try."
He followed after Momon.
The elders remained behind.
The great doors thundered shut behind Momon.
The Spirit Stone dimmed.
For several long breaths, no one moved.
Then the High Shaman's staff struck the floor once.
Tok.
The sound was soft — yet every elder straightened.
He did not raise his voice.
"Seris," he said calmly. "Stand."
Seris Moira rose immediately from her seat.
"You spoke without sanction."
Her fingers tightened inside her sleeves.
"I was trying to protect the village," she replied carefully. "The boy's origin is unknown. If he becomes unstable—"
"You are not here to decide," the Shaman interrupted quietly.
"You are here to wait until I decide."
The temperature in the hall seemed to fall.
Seris swallowed.
"I meant no disrespect," she said. "I only wished to prevent conflict between you and the Chief."
The Shaman stepped closer.
"You did not prevent conflict," he replied softly.
"You delayed a death."
Seris froze.
He leaned in just enough for only the elders to hear.
"The boy was meant to be removed today."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Elder Bram Thorne's scarred brow furrowed.
"You wanted him executed?" the monster-hunt commander growled.
The Shaman's silver gaze slid to him.
"I wanted certainty."
No one challenged that.
Elder Korrin Hale, Master of External Affairs, cleared his throat.
"If he draws attention, other villages will test us," he said mildly. "I can contain rumors — but not chaos."
Bram folded his arms.
"If the kid snaps, I'll handle it."
Seris lifted her chin.
All eyes returned to the Shaman.
He turned slowly toward the sealed palace doors.
"…He has been accepted," he said.
"But acceptance is not absolution."
His fingers curled around his staff.
"I will watch over him myself."