The council longhouse was heavy with the smell of damp wood and smoke. Outside, the rain had paused for the first time in days, leaving mist curling through the village paths. Inside, torches flickered against carved walls, their light catching on the grim faces of the matriarchs and warriors who stood in a semicircle.
Two captured scouts knelt in the center, their hands bound with braided vine rope. Mud streaked their faces and torn clothes clung to their skin. They spoke in a dialect close to the village tongue, yet sharp with unfamiliar edges.
Charlisa stood at the back, her eyes shifting between the prisoners and the elders. She could feel the tension pressing on everyone — the knowledge that these men had been shadowing the forest trails for days.
Rynar stepped forward from the warriors' line, his presence commanding without a word. His dark hair was still wet from the forest hunt, beads of water catching in the torchlight. He placed a spear upright beside him and bowed slightly to the matriarchs.
"They were found beyond the northern ridge," Rynar reported, his voice steady. "Following the same tracks Kael and I have been watching for weeks. They carried no food, no trade goods… only these." He tossed a small leather pouch to the floor; inside, polished bone tokens clattered like teeth.
A murmur rippled through the room. Charlisa noticed Kael's jaw tighten at the sight.
One of the matriarchs stepped forward, her silver hair braided thick over her shoulder. "You followed them without being seen?" she asked.
Rynar's mouth curved faintly. "We let them think they were leading us. Makes the trail shorter."
The trial began in earnest — questions about their purpose, their origin, their masters. The scouts answered little, glancing toward each other in a silent language of distrust.
At one point, Kael's voice cut through the low rumble. "If they're lying, we'll know soon enough. If they're not…" He let the unfinished sentence hang in the air, heavy as a drawn bowstring.
The matriarchs finally decreed that the scouts would be kept under guard until the rains eased, and then marched to the edge of tribal territory to face judgment from the outer clans.
As the meeting broke, Charlisa caught a glimpse of Rynar and Kael exchanging a look — the kind that wasn't just about duty, but about an unspoken readiness. Whatever danger the scouts represented, they had already decided they would face it side by side.
The village square, usually calm with woven mats and quiet chatter, now pulsed with suspicion.
Matriarch Yelara stood at the center, tall and firm, her braided grey hair crowned with carved bones of ancient leaders. Kael stood at her right, arms crossed. Aven was behind her, her arm still bandaged from the cliff crow attack.
Charlisa pushed through the gathering crowd to stand near the front, her eyes narrowing at the strangers. One was thin and sharp-eyed, the other broader but injured—likely from Kael's patrol group that had caught them.
"They carried no tribe markings," Kael said grimly. "But their boots are from the southern trade lines. Farther than any peaceful caravan would travel."
The Matriarch raised a hand.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
The thin man coughed, his voice dry. "We were gathering...for the City of Dorian. Not your concern."
The name struck a chord—Dorian. One of the Greek-named cities referenced by merchants. Known for its walled power and greed.
"You crossed three sacred borders," Yelara said coldly. "You watched our children train, and our elders gather herbs. You mapped our land."
A ripple of anger swept through the villagers.
Charlisa's eyes flicked to the injured scout's leg. An untreated wound was beginning to fester.
"Let me tend to him," she said softly.
The Matriarch hesitated, then nodded once.
As Charlisa knelt, the thin scout sneered. "He'll tell you nothing. You villagers play at purity, but your lands are ripe—and unclaimed by any real force."
Charlisa looked up, her voice like ice. "You think untouched means unprotected?"
He blinked at her sudden ferocity.
She turned to Yelara. "Let me speak to them in private. Not as healer, but as someone from a world where cities hunger for lands like these."
The crowd murmured. Yelara studied her for a moment, then gave a short nod.
Later, inside the small tent where the scouts were held, Charlisa bandaged the injured man gently. The thin one watched her warily.
"Your cities think this village is simple," she said. "You think we're passive. But the land remembers, and so do the people."
"No one remembers the old ways," he spat.
"I do," she replied calmly. "And I'm not the only one."
He looked away.
By the end of the day, one scout had broken—admitting that Dorian had sent small bands into outlier regions to test responses. Charlisa's private conversation had done what pressure and force could not—unearth motive.
At the trial that night, torches lit the circle. Yelara spoke to the village:
"We do not kill unless there is no other path. These men will be exiled. Blindfolded. Returned to the edge of the Eastern marshes with no maps, no tools, no knowledge of what they saw. They will walk...or perish."
And so it was done.
As the crowd began to disperse, Kael came to Charlisa's side.
"You faced him without fear," he said.
"I've seen worse in polished suits and air-conditioned rooms," she murmured.
He took her hand.
And across the dark hills beyond the village, unseen eyes blinked in the brush—others were watching.