Dem slept deeply, dreamless and peaceful, waking to the natural noises of Dhrygal — a stooping hawk, lizards skittering across sun-warmed stone, wind whispering through sagebrush. Centering himself, he stepped out of the command tent with lightness in his stride.
"Commander."
Rodric Bearclaw loomed beside him, a mountain of a man holding a bowl of meat and vegetables that looked comically small in his massive hand.
"Ready, Sub-Chief?" Dem patted his arm.
"I'm not sure why you picked me," Rodric rumbled. "I'm the strongest, but among the spears there are a few who would do better in a duel."
Dem knelt by the cookfire, ladling broth into a bowl. "You're doing well as a leader, Rodric. Let me share something I've adapted: the most important thing for a leader is to take care of your people. Danger is part of the Sentry mission — but knowing my people lets me choose the best person for each task. I chose you because I know you're best suited."
Rodric smiled, nodding once. "Then I'll trust that. Do you know anything about Mullen? You mentioned we're walking into his trap."
"I know enough. He's dangerous — but he can't handle you."
Dem scraped the bowl clean and tucked it into his storage ring. "Say goodbye to your dasai. We leave now."
They walked side by side to the staging area where the Sentries were preparing to ride back to the Stonefall compound. The two of them together looked almost absurd — like a grown man walking beside a child. In truth, Rodric made everyone look small.
Reyka stepped forward, touching Dem's shoulder. "Be safe, Commander."
"Of course." He glanced around; the Sentries felt somber, uneasy. "Stay alert on the ride back."
Telo and Sark came next, gripping his forearm in solidarity.
Dem and Rodric left camp, moving in silence. After an hour, the deserted Black Crow grounds came into view.
A table had been set in a cleared space, three chairs arranged on each side. Three figures waited. Dem sensed no others nearby. He halted, gripping Rodric's forearm.
"Trust me," Dem murmured. "My faith in you is absolute."
Rodric's stoic façade cracked into a brief grin. "I understand."
As they approached, Captain Feran sat stiffly in one chair, Mullen Cross standing behind him like a stone statue. A woman occupied the third position, holding a stack of papers and observing the newcomers with sharp, assessing eyes.
"Greetings, gentlemen," she said. "I am Scrivener Sadera Yil of the Khomane Empire. My duty is to create a binding contract and ensure all necessary officials receive proper documentation."
She took her place at the table. "Please, be seated."
Dem sat across from Feran, noting both men studying him closely. "Thank you, Scrivener Sadera."
She smiled, cleared her throat, and lifted her quill. "Please state your name and rank."
"Commander Dem Swiftwind of the Sentry Force."
The sound of quill on parchment seemed loud as she copied the name onto three documents.
"Commander Swiftwind, as the indigenous leader in this contract, you are designated the Aggrieved Commander."
Dem nodded.
"Captain Feran of the Black Crows," Feran said, injecting the title with as much dignity as he could muster.
Sadera's lips tightened. "Captain Feran, as leader of the invading force, you are designated the Offending Commander."
"Whatever," Feran snapped. "Let's get on with it."
Sadera ignored him. "Commander Swiftwind, as the Aggrieved Party, you may request restitution — gold, equipment, hostages, or items of equivalent value — up to a limit of one thousand gold. Do you agree to this cap?"
"I agree," Dem said.
More scratching of pen on parchment.
Sadera turned to Feran. "Captain Feran, as the Offending Commander, you are responsi—"
"I agree," Feran cut in.
The scrivener frowned but continued writing.
"Commander Swiftwind," she prompted, "please make your request for restitution."
"One thousand gold."
"Agreed," Feran barked, cutting Sadera off again.
Ink scratched, pages turned.
"Captain Feran," Sadera continued, "you may now make requests regarding peaceful withdrawal."
"Four hundred and fifty of my soldiers will withdraw to the nearest port city and await transport back to Khomane," Feran said, making it sound like a decree.
Dem waited patiently, enjoying the mediation process — it was new, almost entertaining.
"This portion only requires me to record agreed-upon conditions," Sadera explained. "You may negotiate freely."
"One hundred and fifty men to three different port cities," Dem countered. "No more than a dozen entering each city at a time."
"Agreed," Feran snapped. "Fully equipped with mounts."
"No," Dem said. "Mounts, no armor, one weapon of choice."
Feran's hands tightened on the table. "And armor."
"No armor."
Silence stretched.
"Have we reached an impasse?" Sadera asked calmly.
Feran exhaled sharply. "No. I agree. Mounts, no armor, one weapon."
"Additionally," Dem continued, "your remaining forces will leave the Four Kingdoms within two days and will not attempt to return for a period of five years."
Feran's eyes bulged.
Sadera politely coughed into her hand — failing to hide the beginnings of a smirk.
"Agreed," Feran rasped, sounding as though he were swallowing glass.
Sadera began scribing the conditions across all three official documents. After some time, she pushed them in front of Feran.
"As the Offending Commander, you are required to sign first."
Feran stabbed the quill into the parchment and slashed out his signature like he was cutting down an enemy. When he finished, Sadera retrieved the pages, frowning slightly as she blew to dry the ink.
Then she slid them toward Dem.
"As the Aggrieved Commander," she said, "your signature confirms that you accept the terms and enter freely into a legal contract with Captain Feran of the Black Crows."
Dem signed all three documents without hesitation.
Sadera carefully reviewed each page again, line by line, before dating and stamping all three with her official seal. She handed one copy to each commander.
"I will take the third copy back to the Scrivener Guild in Khomane and place it in our Hall of Historical Records and Documents. This concludes my role in this matter."
Dem rose, offering his hand. "Very nice to meet you, Scrivener Sadera."
Sadera shook his hand warmly. "Commander, though I accompanied the Black Crows to this land, my duty was to record all relevant events as a neutral party."
Dem reached into his storage ring and withdrew a small coin purse — ten gold coins within. "Please accept this donation to the Scrivener's Guild."
Sadera's smile brightened as she accepted it. "For our widow's fund?" she asked coyly.
"Yes. The widow's fund," Dem said, laughing softly.
Sadera bowed gracefully to both men. "I have fulfilled my duties. I bid you both good day."
"Good day," Dem replied.
Dem waited until his senses confirmed Sadera had departed.
"You mentioned something about tea?"
"Prepare yourself," Feran said, all politeness gone.
"Sure."
Dem rose, stepping back several paces. He glanced at Rodric, who looked genuinely concerned.
"Questions?"
Rodric eyed Feran. "He's using twin scimitars. Shouldn't you use the spear? Your daggers put you at a reach disadvantage."
"Those are nice," Dem conceded. "But I'm staying with my daggers."
Mullen removed the table and chairs while Feran rolled his shoulders, warming up with a few fluid cuts through the air. Steel sang. Dust stirred.
Rodric retreated, spear in one hand.
Feran paused, as if remembering something, and pulled a stone from his belt, holding it aloft.
"If you were really a beastkin, this stone would be glowing. It's not reacting at all."
"You know nothing."
Dark blades formed in Dem's hands as shadow armor rippled across him like living midnight. His voice fell into that dark, calm place.
"Let's go."
Feran moved first — confidently — weaving his blades in an intricate pattern as he advanced with a dancer's footwork.
Dem blurred, leaving an afterimage behind.
Feran's scimitar cut through the illusion.
Reality caught him a heartbeat later.
Shadow daggers sliced a long, clean cut along his forearm — so fast Feran didn't feel it until his scimitar clattered to the ground.
Feran stumbled back, grimacing. One exchange. One. And he already knew:
He could not kill this boy.
"Mullen," Feran rasped, "kill him!"
"No."
Mullen kept his arms crossed, expression twisted somewhere between amusement and bloodlust.
"I ordered you—"
Feran's instincts flared. He jerked up his remaining blade and retreated—
Too late.
Dem's daggers flowed around the scimitar like water. One slashed across Feran's forehead, the other through his left eye.
"NO WAIT! MULLE—"
Captain Feran's final words dissolved into a wet gurgle as Dem's blade opened his throat, spraying blood in a wide arc across the sand.
Dem felt something — a magical tether snapping.
Behind him, Mullen reached up and unclasped a metallic choker from around his neck, letting it drop into the dust.
The behemoth rubbed his freed throat, emotion twisting his features.
"I should say thank you," Mullen said quietly, voice gravel-deep.
"But you won't," Dem replied.
"I won't," Mullen agreed. "His family enslaved me. Forced to protect this idiot, bound by their enchantment. Couldn't lift a hand against him."
Then he blurred.
Mullen's boot came down on Feran's skull with sickening force, crushing it like fruit. Bone, blood, and brain matter sprayed in every direction.
"How I've waited for someone to kill him," Mullen snarled.
"You talk too much," Dem said.
Mullen laughed — a deep, unhinged sound. His eyes glowed brighter.
"You don't know what I am."
"Pretty sure I do," Dem said calmly.
"No," Mullen growled. "Your kind fear us. Limit us. Keep behemoths low — terrified we'll challenge leadership. They'd never let one like me rise."
The air thickened. Power radiated.
"As Teran's second," Mullen roared, "I now assume command of the Black Crows. And before I leave this land, I will feast on your bones!"
Darkness swirled around him. His massive frame grew larger — armor splitting, clothing tearing as fur erupted across his body. Four clawed limbs slammed into the ground. His jaws widened with impossible teeth.
A monstrous bear, fifteen feet tall when he reared, muscles like knotted steel.
Dem laughed — actually laughed — drawing a shocked look from Rodric.
"That's a big bear."
Mullen roared, snapping his jaws.
"You aren't the only behemoth here," Dem said. His eyes flared blood-red.
"Escadomai."
Rodric's spear fell from his hand as he doubled over, body convulsing. Bones shifted, muscles expanded, skin thickened. His dark brown flesh turned white as plates of hide formed. His armor tore like paper.
The beast that rose from the dust stomped once, snorting — two daggerlike horns jutting from a reinforced skull.
Three tons of white rhino.
Neither beast bothered to circle.
They charged—pure instinct, pure fury, pure need to crush the opponent beneath them.
Just before collision, Mullen reared, his titanic paw slamming into the rhino's skull with a crack like thunder.
Rodric's head wrenched sideways from the blow, but his momentum carried him forward. His massive shoulder smashed into the bear's torso.
Two immovable objects colliding—but the bear lost ground. Mullen skidded back several meters, claws gouging deep furrows into the rock.
Blood poured down the rhino's face. Shaking off the impact, the beast charged again.
This time, the behemoth bear learned.
He twisted aside from the horn, dropping his entire weight across the rhino's back. Claws raked. Teeth tore. Blood spilled freely as he tried to drag Rodric down.
The rhino dropped suddenly and rolled—a risky, desperate move for a creature not built for agility. Dem winced. A mistake… usually.
But it worked.
The bear was forced to release and stumbled. Mullen recovered quickly and lunged for the rhino's ribs, trying to cripple him before he could stand.
Rodric muscled through the assault, brute strength overcoming pain. The white rhino forced itself upright, pivoted sharply, and drove its long horn into the bear's shoulder.
The rhino surged forward, wrenching its head side to side, ripping the wound wider as Mullen's blood poured onto the earth.
They broke apart again, panting—heavy, drumlike breaths. Both beasts stood drenched in crimson, the ground beneath them slick.
The stillness shattered.
The rhino charged, head high.
The bear reared, monstrous paw poised to deliver another skull-breaking blow.
At the last moment, the rhino dipped low—chin nearly scraping stone—charging under the strike. His horn punched through Mullen's abdomen, then tore upward, lifting the behemoth bodily into the air and tossing him over Rodric's back like a weightless sack.
Mullen hit the ground with a force that cracked stone, leaving a crater.
The bear wailed once—low, guttural, miserable.
Its massive form began to shrink, fur receding, limbs contorting inward as Mullen lost the strength to maintain his beastkin shape.
The wounded man lay in the shattered rock, broken and bleeding.