The inside of the chief's tent was darker than expected, lit only by a central fire pit whose embers glowed like dying eyes. Smoke coiled upward through a hole in the hide roof, carrying with it the scent of burning fat, blood, and crushed herbs. The ground beneath our knees was layered with thick furs—wolf, bear, something larger I couldn't immediately name—each one a testament to conquest rather than comfort.
The man before us was no ordinary chieftain.
He sat upon a raised platform of stacked stone slabs and lashed timber, a crude throne reinforced with bone struts and decorated with skulls carved in symbols I didn't recognize. His body was massive, broader than any man I had ever seen, his arms thick as tree trunks and etched with scars that overlapped like a map of violence. His skin was darkened by sun and ash, stretched tight over muscle hardened by decades of survival.
Around his neck hung a necklace of teeth—human and beast alike.
At his side rested his weapon.
Not steel.
Never steel.
It was an axe of obsidian and stone, its edge jagged yet deliberate, haft wrapped in cured sinew and leather. Strange runes had been carved into the handle, darkened with old blood and ash. It radiated a weight that went beyond mass—something earned through use.
The chief did not speak at first.
He simply watched.
The silence stretched long enough that Livia's breathing became uneven. I felt her trembling beside me, her fingers digging into my arm as if anchoring herself to the world. I murmured under my breath, barely moving my lips.
"Stay still."
Finally, the chief rose.
The sound alone made my spine tighten. Furs slid, stone scraped. When he stepped forward, the ground itself seemed to acknowledge his presence. Each footfall was slow, deliberate, until his shadow swallowed us both.
"Raise your heads," he said.
His voice was deep and rough, like thunder rolling beneath packed earth.
I lifted my gaze first, just enough to show obedience without submission. Livia followed a moment later, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, though the tears continued to fall freely.
The chief's eyes were sharp—dark and reflective, like polished stone. They passed over me, then lingered on Livia. He said nothing, but I saw the calculation there. Grief was not foreign to him. It was familiar. Useful.
"Two," he finally said. "Only two arrive from the western valley."
His gaze hardened.
"Yesterday, the wind carried screams until the sun bled into the horizon."
My jaw tightened.
"You smell of death," he continued. "Of smoke. Of old fear."
He began to circle us slowly, his presence oppressive. Warriors lined the edges of the tent—men and women alike, clad in leather and bone, gripping spears tipped with sharpened stone and black glass. Their eyes followed every twitch of my hands.
"Speak," the chief commanded. "Before I decide your throats are easier answers."
I pressed my fist to the ground, bowing my head slightly.
"My lord," I said, steadying my voice, "we come as the last breath of our people."
The chief stopped moving.
"Careful," he warned. "I do not tolerate stories meant to soften my heart."
I swallowed and continued.
"We were a small tribe. Gatherers. Hunters. We lived between river and stone, taking only what was needed. At dawn yesterday, men came from the east—wearing strange hides, wielding weapons unlike ours. Black glass that split flesh like water, clubs hardened by fire, throwing spears that screamed when they flew."
His brow twitched at that.
"They came in numbers," I said. "They burned our shelters. Slaughtered our elders. Crushed our children against the ground. They defiled our dead so their spirits could not rest."
Livia broke then.
A quiet, shattered sound escaped her chest as she bowed her head, tears dripping onto the furs below. She clutched my arm as if it were the only solid thing left in her world.
The chief resumed circling us.
"You did not fight," he said.
It wasn't a question.
I forced bitterness into my voice, letting it crack just enough. "With what? Stone against stone, when theirs were faster, sharper, crafted for killing?" I lifted my head fully now. "If we had stood, there would be no one left to kneel before you."
The fire crackled.
The chief stopped directly in front of me.
"And why," he asked slowly, "do survivors crawl to my lands?"
I met his gaze.
"Because your people still honor strength," I said. "And because your enemies are the same ones who butchered us."
A low murmur rippled through the tent.
The chief's lips curled—not quite a smile.
"You speak boldly for someone with no tribe."
I inhaled, then said the truth wrapped in lies. "We had a tribe. It was taken from us. I ask not for shelter alone, but for the chance to earn a place among yours. Let us bleed for you. Let us hunt beside you. Let us reclaim our honor through service and war."
He turned his gaze to Livia.
"And the girl?"
I answered instantly. "She will train. Learn your ways. Heal if she must. Fight if she must. She refuses to be carried like a burden."
Livia straightened, lifting her chin despite her tears. "I won't break," she said hoarsely. "I swear it."
The chief studied her for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
It was short, booming, echoing through the tent like a drumbeat of approval.
"Pain has already claimed you," he said. "That makes you dangerous."
He returned to his throne and sat heavily.
"You may stay," he declared. "For now."
Relief loosened my chest—but only slightly.
"You will eat our food," he continued. "Sleep beneath our sky. You will take our trials. If you prove weak, you will be cast out into the wilds. If you lie—"
His eyes locked onto mine, sharp enough to cut.
"I will break you with my own hands."
I bowed deeply. "We accept."
The chief raised one final finger.
"One more thing."
I looked up.
"You will not hide forever," he said. "Every soul shows its truth under blood and hunger."
His gaze lingered on me longer than it should have.
As the guards stepped forward to escort us out, I felt it again—that familiar pressure beneath my skin, the thing I kept buried, restrained, starved.
Survive. Adapt. Grow.
This tribe would be our refuge.
And one day— It would kneel to a power far greater than it yet understood.