The fire had burned low, casting a dim, wavering light on the walls. Nyxari and Noctari had retired early, leaving Nocte alone in the quiet. Alone, save for the child in his arms.
Spectrasol.
The strange name still rang in his mind, imbued with sacredness, heavy with the weight Tseraka had promised it carried.
"Shamans and their riddles, such a long name for a baby." Nocte shook his head.
"I'll call you, Spectra."
Nocte's fingers traced the soft curve of the boy's cheek, feeling the warmth of his tiny breaths. But beneath the tenderness was something darker, more profound — a grip, a claim. The same possessive heat he had seen flash in Tseraka's eyes when she looked upon the boy.
She had wanted him.
Needed him.
But so did Nocte.
His mind drifted — unwillingly — to the day Noctari was born.
The camp had been chaotic. Screaming. Running feet. The acrid scent of boiled herbs clung to the air. Someone had told him Nyxari was bleeding too much, that the midwives couldn't stop it. That neither mother nor child might see the next moonrise.
He had felt cold then. Colder than any night in the wilds.
When the crying came — weak at first, then strong — he had pushed past the midwives without caring whose blood stained his boots. Nyxari was pale, exhausted, but alive. And in her arms was their daughter.
His daughter.
He had felt joy then — joy so bright it hurt — and yet…
A son. He had no son.
Tradition was clear: in time, Nyxari would no longer be Matriarch. A woman of the Seven Great Clans could lead when the tribe was young, but a male heir of great blood must eventually take the seat. Without one, the tribe leadership position would pass to another's hands, like Nyxari's father, the former Noctvorn Clan leader, had done in the past. And worse, Noctari Noctari would be wed off, their legacy handed to another — to preserve her Noctarii bloodline.
Had Nyxari been able to bear a child again, this would not have been an issue. However, due to the complications during her first childbirth, attempting to do so again would put both mother and child at risk.
So, Nocte accepted it.
For years, he had buried that truth beneath pride for his family. But Nocte was ambitious, always had been.
But when he found this boy — this Dusknari infant with no name, no kin, no past — something inside him had moved like an old wound reopening.
Spectra. He would be more than an heir.
He would be a weapon, a leader, a force to lift the Noctvalis Tribe higher than Nocte had ever dreamed.
The boy stirred in his arms, small fingers curling against the fabric of Nocte's tunic. And with that touch came another memory, sharper, colder — the smell of blood and mud.
He had been a few years older than Noctari when the Kael'Morrak raiders descended on his village. His tribe burned. His kin scattered. He and Crow — only boys — were taken by the Sol'Baran Tribe and sold into conscription. They were nothing but weapons to be thrown into war until they broke.
They called him Bear back then.
Any Noctarii who were not part of the great seven tribes, or had direct lineage with them, were thought of as beasts. Since they were simple beasts, they were permitted to be given names of animals of the simplest classes; Natuwild.
By sixteen, he had clawed his way to vice-captain of the Night Hounds, a small but lethal war party. The Hounds bought his and Crow's contracts outright, giving him something rare — loyalty. The two trained hellishly, and while Crow became faster, more agile, and more lethal, Bear was growing differently.
Being a Varnari class Noctarii, his blood carried power, and through constant warring and raiding, that power had begun to blossom. Physically, even as a teenager, his frame was imposing. Just over 180cm, and built like his namesake, Bear would cleave opponents clean in half with one strike. And in battle, where Crow became colder and more calculated, Bear became more brutal, more frenzied. His swing carried more than just bloodlust and anger; it wasn't just revenge that was burning in those black and brown eyes. There was something else.
Hunger.
Ambition.
By eighteen, he commanded the Night Hounds himself, his name whispered with both respect and caution. That was when the Noctvorn Tribe, one of the great seven, sought him out — to destroy another war party tied to the Kael'Morrak.
Kael'Morrak Tribe was the most prominent tribe on Isla Spectrus, while Noctvorn Tribe was the second. They would sometimes wage war with each other and then make peace. They would raid each other constantly but come to the aid of their shared ally, the Thae'Runn Tribe, at a moment's notice.
The relationship between the two tribes was complicated to say the least.
Bear's relationship with them was not.
He agreed with no hesitation to the shock of many, both in his party and on the Noctvorn side as well.
One person on the Noctvorn side did find it amusing and, unable to hold back her curiosity, asked the brash youth, "Should your bones not be set alight under the twin moons, if by some miracle you should return victorious, what do you wish to be compensated?"
All eyes turned to him, while his black and brown ones were locked on her black and purple ones.
The woman towered over him and looked as if something the gods dreamt up along with the moons and mountains.
"You."
The room collectively took a gasp, unable to believe what had just come out of this youth's mouth.
He, though, did not.
Neither did Nyxari; she could see the hunger in his eyes, and an unfamiliar feeling began to take hold of her.
Then with a smile, "You will all know what I wish for upon my return."
The tension in the room eased, and the party began to move out.
Throwing one last look at the towering goddess, Bear smiled. "But now, I have a large appetite."
Nyxari's face flushed, and unbeknownst to anyone from that day forward, she would spend an hour daily with the tribe shamans performing good fortune rituals.
She prayed for his return and the destruction of the Kael'Morrak Tribe raiding party.
He did more than destroy them.
After a month of tracking, they located the party set up in a field in the northern region. By this point, Crow had become a prodigious tracker, hunter, and scout. His gifts, courtesy of Varnari blood, began to shine.
"It's him, the one that razed our tribe, that did this to us", Crow reported back.
Ashmaw — the same man who had burned his tribe a decade before.
His name alone showed he was a proven and tested warlord. For a Natuwild beast to elevate to the Umbrawild class, it must kill a beast of that class.
Ashmaw was not the name he was born with, but the name he earned.
Through blood.
Through Fire.
And now it was Bear's turn.
Though outnumbered 2:1, the Night Hounds did not give quarter, and while the Kael'Morrak party was relentless, they did not have Bear and his shadow, Crow.
For every swing of his cleaver, Bear slayed four men. Crow, not one to fall behind, moved between attackers, killing them before they took out his allies.
While one drew attention and spearheaded the attack, the other would fill in the gaps and ensure minimal loss of life for their side.
This was their tactic, their bread and butter, which had brought only victory since Bear had taken leadership.
When he finally came face to face with Ashmaw, warriors from both sides ceased combat and gave way, as two champions were about to begin mortal combat.
A respected custom, to the victor the glory.
To the losers, another day of life, minus a champion.
Ashmaw was now in his mid-thirties, but his body was still in its prime, and on top of that, he was wiser with age.
Though Bear was bigger, surpassing two meters now, Ashmaw was shrew, calculated, and lethal.
Every rage-filled swing shattered the ground it made impact upon, but Ashmaw was elusive as smoke.
For every missed swing, he would stab at Bear with his spear. Though Bear's spirit did not wane, he was even more frenzied; the slow strike accumulated damage.
Whatever advantages Bear gained from his Varnari Blood, Ashmaw reaped those same benefits, and he used them better.
"Your anger blinds you. Why? What wrong have I done to you?" Ashmaw feigned curiosity as he approached a now exhausted Bear, spear to his side, completely relaxed.
To Bear, this man had taken everything from him.
To him, Bear was just a wounded beast.
Dangerous? Of course.
But that was all. He has more than enough practice at putting down wounded beasts.
Hearing the mocking tone, something inside Bear snapped, "I will kill you!"
He lunged forward at Ashmaw and, with all his might, brought down his cleaver.
Swoosh.
It cut nothing but air as it sank deep into the dirt, becoming stuck from the force of the strike.
Ashmaw whistled as he raised his spear.
Bear lifted his hand in an attempt to catch, which led to him falling for Ashmaw's feint.
Switching from high to low, he pierced Bear in his abdomen, piercing through his leather armour and out the other side through his back.
Both spectating sides watched on as Ashmaw, cruelly, stepped forward, pushing the pear deeper.
"Such arrogance, you came for my neck with only this? I'll slaughter the rest of your men for this disgrace, he whispered in Bear's ear.
Coughing up blood, Bear chuckled.
"took the words out of my mouth!"
Reaching up with his left, he grabbed Ashmaw's face, lifting him in the air before violently smashing him into the ground. He then reached back and broke off the end of the spear protruding from his back.
Ashmaw's eyes could only widen as he was stabbed tens of times with the spearhead.
He was long dead when Bear gave the order to leave no survivor, tradition and custom be damned.
That kill gave him the right to rise from Natuwild to Umbrawild. Bear became Grovenbear.
When the time came for payment, he refused just coins.
"Land, a tribe, autonomy? I thought you were pierced in the abdomen, not the head. We are prepared to offer you 500 Sabi coins and take you on as retainers now, but that is it!" The elder presiding over negotiations was firm, though not a warrior by any means; he held no fear in these negotiations because he had backing.
Literally.
To his back was the former tribe leader, Nyxari's father, Nyxus.
He smiled at the greed of the young warrior Grovenbear. He also smiled because he respected his might and unrelenting will.
'Nyxari has run the shamans ragged doing good luck rituals, I can see why.'
Nyxus was very observant, and when the stock of ritual herbs began to dip, he investigated.
He almost couldn't hide the amusement when he finally put two and two together.
'Oh, to be young.'
Negotiations continued for another week, and both parties began to grow increasingly irritable.
All except one.
Nyxus was appraising like one would a stone; he was trying to estimate his value.
'Shorter than I would have liked, but he's more than adequate'
The reason Nyxus had not just paid the party the standard amount and sent them off was due to two factors.
Firstly, he had no sons, so his daughter would be wed off to someone of the Varnari class and sent to start a branch tribe. Though there were suitors, none were up to par. The families of the great seven tribes produced talents, but not warriors. Hence, he is searching for a party to slay Ashmaw, a test, to find a worthy warrior. And to top it off, Nyxari fell for him herself.
This led to the second factor: he was a Noctarii.
Not just Noctarii, one of Varnari status like himself and the rest of his tribe.
'Adequate indeed.'
He raised his hands and cut off both sides, "Enough."
Both parties looked to him, awaiting what came next.
"I will give you all of that, plus a name befitting your Varnari status. You will marry my daughter and start a branch tribe. That is all, I will send her to you, and she will handle the rest."
Just like that, his wishes had been granted: a tribe for him and Crow to call their own, a valid name, Nocte, and even a noble wife.
Some of his hunger had been satiated.
He rose high. Higher than any nameless boy from a burned-out village had a right to. But even as Grovenbear, he had touched the ceiling of his fate. He was not of the great seven male lines, only a branch clan through marriage. Nyxari could not rule forever — tradition demanded the male lead the tribe, and when she stepped down, the bloodline would be forced into compromise or surrender.
Nocte blinked, the memories dissolving back into the dim light of the present.
He looked down at the boy. "You will be more," he murmured. More than me. More than any of them"
Spectra yawned, unknowing, and nestled deeper into the crook of his arm.
Nocte smiled faintly — and tightened his hold.
A blank slate. No kin. Dusknari blood.
Where Tseraka saw a child of prophecy to unite the tribes and ascend the mountain, Nocte saw something else entirely — a warlord. A ruler. A conqueror who would crush the great seven tribes beneath his heel, and when the mountain itself dared to stand in his way… crush that too.
Nocte cradled the child in his arms, eyes hard, voice low.
"You won't just survive, little one. You'll thrive. You'll conquer. I'll see to it."