Lyra Terran did not suspect anything and continued explaining the world to Zaric.
He had imagined a place where martial arts were respected; he hadn't grasped that here, martial arts were life. Humans clung to cities and campgrounds while the wilds belonged to savage and desolate beasts. Farmers and hunters risked their lives each day. Without powerful warriors, a single night raid could erase a settlement.
Their own tribe was small and brittle—no high-level warriors, always on the brink. To survive, they forged arrows and stitched armor for stronger powers, trading craft for rations and scraps of meat.
The arrow shafts Lyra carved came as raw bundles from a larger power; she only finished them.
"Zac, go in and sleep. With these, we can trade for a decent share tomorrow," Lyra said, patting two neatly tied bundles. "Maybe even a slice of desolate beast. Do you remember those? The big tribes hunt them. Eating it gives strength! If we could eat it often, you'd grow strong so fast…"
Her smile turned wistful. Reality was harsher: months passed between tastes of true meat. The dream of becoming a warrior felt like a luxury.
In the great powers, youths chewed desolate beast as if it were common fare. To them, meat was for commoners—the true prize was the desolate bones. Properly refined, an entire skeleton yielded a bean-sized bone essence that helped open meridians and awaken blood veins. Every cultivator coveted it.
For people like Lyra and Zaric, bone essence was a legend. Even refining a splinter of bone required secret techniques no villager possessed.
"Desolate beasts… bone essence…" Zaric murmured, impressed by how much Lyra knew.
Dawn came and hunger woke him like a slap. The porridge from the night before had long faded to nothing.
"Sister Lyra!" he blurted, then caught himself. He'd learned he used to call her that—Sister Lyra—and the name came easier each time.
Lyra's clothes were soaked with dew; red threads mapped her tired eyes. The two arrow bundles in her arms told the story—she hadn't slept, working by moonlight and fireflies to finish in time.
"Zac," she said, smiling through fatigue, "when you fell and were hurt, I watched you day and night. Then there were… rites. I got behind. If I didn't rush, we'd miss allotment day. Today I'll get you desolate beast meat to build you back up."
She wrapped the bundles carefully, pleased with the weight.
Zaric exhaled and quietly clenched his fists. I'll change this. For her.
"Let's go," Lyra said, steadying him with one hand and hefting both arrow bundles with the other.
They reached the Clay Square, where half the tribe had gathered. On the makeshift stage, a robed man lounged on a chair draped with beast hide, a fine sword at his waist. He looked no older than twenty-five, and his eyes skimmed the crowd with lazy disdain.
Beside him, an elderly man in yellow—their Patriarch—bowed with a smile pinched thin by fear.
"Are the goods satisfactory, Envoy Karr?" the Patriarch asked, hunched and eager.
The robed man—an envoy of the Stone Court—snorted without answering. Porters hauled bundles of arrows and stacks of leather to a wagon; a scribe tallied every piece.
Lyra traded in her arrows and received two small wooden tokens. She held them tight, palms damp, eyes bright with hope.
After a quarter hour, the last bundle thumped into the wagon. Envoy Karr flipped a heavy chest toward the Patriarch with one hand and turned away, his men falling in behind him.
Only when the envoy was gone did the Patriarch's smile drop. He drew himself up and faced the crowd.
"Patriarch, the rations—please!" voices pleaded. "It's been months!"
"Silence," he barked, and the square fell still. "We begin distribution. Present your tablets. You'll receive what is allotted—no more."
He lifted a hand, and strong men rolled out sacks from the storehouse, piling them into a small mound.
"That's it?" someone cried. "There's less than last time!"
"Where's the meat?" another shouted.
Murmurs hardened to anger. "The Stone Court squeezes us dry!"
"Enough!" the Patriarch's voice cracked like a whip. Beneath his frailty, he was still a warrior—a low Mortal Blood, but enough to keep order. "First—the warrior preparation camp!"
A line of youths and men in leather stepped forward, ages fifteen to forty, broad-shouldered from training. They didn't farm or craft; they were the tribe's slim hope. They had no tokens, yet each carried off a bulging sack.
The mound shrank by a fifth. Ten times as many people waited behind.
Lyra's fingers tightened around her tablets. Her face paled.
"Households with Tier One males, step up!" the Patriarch called. In this world, even outside the training camp, households were ranked by strength: Tier One meant lifting three hundred pounds of stone. Those families collected smaller rations than usual—but at least they collected.
"Tier Two!"—roughly two hundred fifty—received far less.
With every sack taken, the pile withered. Zaric felt Lyra's breath hitch beside him.
"Tier Three!"
The Patriarch's brow furrowed. Even if he emptied the store, there wouldn't be enough. He knew what that meant. So did everyone else.
Finally, he waved a hand. "The rest—form a line."
The square erupted as the desperate surged forward. Lyra cried out and went down, swallowed by legs and elbows.
"Sister Lyra!" Zaric shoved through, hauling her up. She clung to his hand, wooden tokens pressed white in her fist.
"Order!" the Patriarch roared, aura flaring. The crush loosened. "One by one."
People filed past for their pitiful shares. Soon the last of the real rations were gone.
Lyra's lips trembled.
"Garrin," the Patriarch said to a stout clansman, "bring out the reserve grain."
"Yes, Patriarch." Garrin vanished and returned with a small cart. The sacks inside were labeled with a single character: grain.
Grain here was the dregs—bran and husks pressed into something you could boil if you squinted and lied to yourself. It tasted like sand and filled you like air. Still, it was better than nothing.
By the time Lyra reached the front, the cart was nearly empty. She traded both sweat-soaked tokens and received two palm-sized bags—ten days of thin porridge if they were careful.
She stared at the light weight in her hands, stunned.
"Move along," the man at the cart snapped. "Don't block the line."
Anger flared in her eyes. She had worked through the night, and this was all they would eat. She lifted her chin. "Why so little? I brought two bundles. Where is our ration? Where is the meat?"
The grain-keeper blinked, not expecting defiance from a thin girl. His lip curled. "Know your place. You're just a child. No males at home—what would you do with more? Waste it?"
In small tribes, male strength was currency. Here, women were expected to bow and make do.
Lyra's jaw set. Her voice rang clear across the square. "Who said I don't have any males in my house? I have one—right here!"
She seized Zaric's hand and pulled him to her side