Char's mind spun, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Flint was here.
In the settlement.
How?
His feet moved before his thoughts could catch up. He pushed through the crowd of celebrating Valkari, barely hearing the music and murmured conversations around him. His eyes darted wildly, searching for any familiar face, any sign that he wasn't losing his mind.
Merrick. Find Merrick.
Char recalled that Merrick had been nearby while he had been spying on Lucien, just before Flint appeared and lead the newly-promoted Chief away. Char weaved through the throngs of Valkari, breath heavy and ears ringing with panic. Finally, after a few minutes of scouring the crowd, he spotted the magician off to the side, perched on a low stone bench with a clay jug in hand. He was slouched forward, his expression already glazed with intoxication.
Char stormed up to him, grabbing his shoulder. "Merrick, Flint's here."
Merrick blinked at him, sluggishly tilting his head. "Huh?"
"Flint," Char hissed. "He's in the settlement—he just took Lucien somewhere. We need to find Mira."
Merrick frowned, still unfocused. "Mira? She—uh…" He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the haze. "She said she wasn't feeling great. Went back to the shack."
A cold weight settled in Char's gut. She was back at their place, all alone? And now that Flint was seemingly influencing the Chief, and the man likely knew that she was in the settlement…
He didn't say anything else. He just turned and ran. He left the huge cavern where the after party was being held, rushed through the chilly outside air, heading to their rickety abode on the edge of the wide campgrounds. His legs burned as he ran, maybe faster than he ever had before, including both of his lives. His training in this world he had originally written had helped him get a bit more fit and a slight bit faster.
The moment Char saw the shack, his stomach dropped.
The door was gone, hanging off its hinges. The roof was half-caved in, and shattered wooden planks littered the ground. A deep, claw-like gouge was ripped through the wall, as if something had torn into it with inhuman force.
"Mira?!"
He scrambled forward, climbing over debris, his heart slamming against his ribs. Dust clung to the air, mixing with the sharp scent of blood.
Then he saw her.
Mira was crumpled against the remains of the far wall, half-buried beneath broken beams. Her clothes were ripped, stained red, and her face was pale with pain. Blood dripped from a gash along her temple, and her right arm was bent at an unnatural angle.
Char's breath hitched. "Mira—"
She stirred, groaning softly. Her good eye fluttered open, unfocused at first, then locking onto him. "Char…" Her voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering uncertainly over her wounds. "Mira, what happened? Who did this to you?"
She winced, trying to shift. "They took her…"
Char's pulse roared. "Who?"
Mira swallowed, her breath shaky. "Selka."
His stomach clenched.
"The Chief's guard," Mira rasped, each word strained. "They… they stormed in. Said Lucien ordered it. They wanted her. I tried to stop them…" She exhaled sharply, her body trembling. "I wasn't strong enough."
Char clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his palms.
Lucien.
Flint.
This wasn't just some random act of violence. It was a message.
A declaration.
He forced himself to breathe, to think. "We're going to get her back," he promised, his voice steady despite the fury coiling in his chest.
Mira let out a weak, bitter chuckle. "You'd better… Otherwise, I really got my ass kicked for nothing."
Char gently cupped her uninjured cheek, his touch grounding. "You did everything you could."
She blinked at him, then gave a small, exhausted nod.
But Char wasn't going to let this go.
Selka was his responsibility.
And he'd tear through every last one of them to get her back.
*
Lucien Wolfsbane stood in the dim torchlight of the chieftain's quarters, his fingers curled into fists behind his back. The heavy pelts draped over his shoulders suddenly felt suffocating, their weight pressing down on him like the hands of a ghost.
His father's ghost.
Rhun Wolfsbane…
The name alone sent a bitter taste to his tongue. A name that once stood for strength, wisdom, and mercy. A name that, for thirty years, had been spoken with reverence. And now? Now it was a hollow whisper, a relic buried beneath the mountain's cold stone.
His father had died a fool.
Lucien exhaled slowly, his breath shaking in his chest. The old man had spent his last years chasing a delusion—clinging to a peace that did not exist. He had softened. Forgotten what it meant to be Valkari.
But not Lucien.
No.
Not me.
He had watched, year after year, as the world beyond the mountains grew stronger while their people stagnated. While his father sat in his chair, spinning empty words of peace, Lucien had listened—to the murmurs of discontent, to the whispers of those who longed for something greater. And now, finally, the weight of leadership had passed to him.
And yet…
He glanced toward the fire pit in the center of the room. The flames twisted and flickered, casting shadows that danced like spirits against the walls.
For all his certainty, there was a voice in his mind that refused to be silenced.
Was this truly the way?
His father had been wrong—Lucien believed that with every fiber of his being. But his father had also been his father.And for all his mistakes, he had kept the Valkari safe.
And then there was Ferme.
His father's right hand. A warrior of ice and steel. She had stood at his side even in the final moments, just as she now stood at Lucien's. But for how long?
Ferme had never been one for politics, nor for sentimentality. She was neither friend nor enemy—just a force, an entity as inevitable as the cold winds that howled through the mountain peaks. And in his deepest thoughts, Lucien feared that one day, her blade would turn against him as easily as it had cut down others in the past.
And Flint…
Lucien clenched his jaw. The human.
The outsider. The manipulator.
But also—his ally.
A strange, dangerous, but undeniably useful ally. One who had stood beside him. One who had guided him through the storm of doubt, whispering truths he had long tried to ignore. Your father is weak.Your people are stagnant.You could be so much more.
Lucien had always known these things, but Flint had spoken them. Given them voice. Given them form.
And now here he stood, the new Chief of the Valkari.
And yet, despite everything—despite the fire in his chest, the power at his fingertips, the knowledge that he had won—his heart twisted, heavy with something he could not name.
He pressed a hand against his temple, exhaling sharply.
This is what you wanted. This is what the Valkari needed. So why…?
A knock at the door cut through his thoughts.
The great wooden doors creaked open, and two of his guards entered, dragging a small figure between them. A girl.
She was bruised, trembling, and covered in dust, her tiny wrists bound together by thick leather straps. But even through the dirt and the fear, her silver hair shone beneath the torchlight. Her glowing yellow eyes burned with defiance.
Lucien felt his breath catch.
The world seemed to still around him.
The fire pit's glow flickered against the stone walls, but he did not see it. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and burning oil, but he did not smell it. The guards were speaking, but he did not hear them.
All he saw was her.
"…Selka?"
The child's eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. "You—"
But Lucien was already moving forward. His hands trembled as he reached out, almost touching her face before stopping himself.
Selka.
His sister.
The last remnant of his mother's blood. The child his father had hidden.
For years, he had known, in the way that a son knows when a father is lying. But Rhun had never spoken of her, never admitted it.
And now here she was. Brought to him in chains.
Lucien felt something in his chest crack.
His mother's face flashed in his mind—warm hands, a soft voice, a smile that had long since faded into memory. Take care of your people, my son. Take care of your family.
And yet, here he stood, staring down at his own blood, chained like a prisoner.
The guards were still speaking, waiting for orders, but Lucien did not answer.
For the first time since his father's death, he did not know what to do.
The air in the chamber felt thick—choking, suffocating, pressing down on Lucien like a phantom weight. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath shallow as he stared at the small, trembling form of Selka before him. His sister. His blood.
And then—Flint's voice slithered into his ears like poison.
"I assume this was not how you envisioned your reunion," the human said smoothly, stepping out from the shadows near the far wall. His cloak barely stirred, his hands clasped in front of him as if he had merely been waiting—as if he had orchestrated this moment from the beginning.
Lucien's grip tightened into fists. He wanted to lash out, to demand an answer, to undo what had just happened. But Flint did not give him the chance.
"I should clarify," Flint continued, his tone infuriatingly calm, "I ordered for Selka to be brought to you, but I made certain your men believed it was on your command." He let the words settle, watching Lucien carefully. "It was necessary, you see. I couldn't risk them delaying, or worse—questioning your authority."
Lucien's jaw clenched. His eyes darted to Selka, who stared at him with a mix of fear and something else—betrayal.
Flint sighed dramatically, stepping closer. "And look how quickly things spiral out of control. A child in chains? Hardly a fitting way to introduce yourself, Chief." He shook his head as if disappointed, then turned his gaze back to Lucien, sharp as a blade. "But this can still be salvaged. If you are willing to listen."
Lucien felt a growl rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down. "Speak. Carefully."
Flint's lips curled in satisfaction. "The humans—Char, Mira, Merrick. They're attached to the girl. Very attached. I have been watching." His eyes flickered toward Selka before returning to Lucien. "We can use this."
Lucien stiffened. "What are you suggesting?"
Flint took another step forward, lowering his voice. "A simple plan, Chief. We let them believe she is in danger. We give them an ultimatum—leave this place, never return, and Selka remains unharmed." He spread his hands. "It's clean. It's effective. And it solves all our problems."
Lucien remained silent, his thoughts a storm of conflict.
Flint took his silence as an invitation to continue. "If they leave willingly, we avoid unnecessary bloodshed. But make no mistake, Lucien—if they refuse, we remove them. Permanently. And I will ensure they do not get a chance to retaliate." His voice dropped lower, a whisper laced with venom. "I will have my vengeance, and you will have your peace."
Lucien exhaled slowly, his mind a battlefield.
It was logical. It made sense. The humans were outsiders. They were a threat—not because of any violent intent, but because of their presence alone. His people were growing restless. Flint had exploited that restlessness, just as he had exploited Lucien's own doubts, his anger.
But Selka—
His sister.
A child.
He had just found her, and now she was to be used as a tool?
Lucien turned his gaze to Flint, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, of doubt. He found none.
Flint believed in this plan. More than that, he relished it.
Lucien felt a wave of disgust crawl up his spine, but he forced it down. He was Chief now. He had to think of his people. Of their survival.
Finally, he nodded. "Fine."
Flint's smirk widened, but before he could speak, Lucien raised a hand. "But hear me, human," he said, voice like ice. "This is my settlement. My people. You are here on my sufferance. And if this plan goes wrong—if Selka is harmed in any way—I will gut you where you stand."
Flint's smirk did not fade. If anything, it deepened.
"Of course, Chief," he murmured.
Lucien turned sharply to the two guards who had dragged Selka in, still standing stiffly at attention. His blood boiled at the sight of them.
"You chained a child of the Wolfsbane line?" His voice was low, lethal. The guards flinched but did not speak.
Lucien turned to Ferme. She had watched everything in silence, her face unreadable. But the moment their eyes met, she gave the smallest nod, understanding his unspoken command.
"Execute them," Lucien ordered.
Ferme did not hesitate.
With a swift movement, she unsheathed her blade and in a single stroke—two bodies collapsed to the ground.
Selka gasped, flinching at the sound, but Lucien did not look away. He needed to see it. Needed to feel the weight of what he had just done.
The chamber was silent, save for the crackling of the fire.
Lucien exhaled, then turned to Selka. He knelt before her, reaching out—but she flinched away. His chest ached at the sight, but he forced his expression to remain neutral.
"Untie her," he ordered.
One of the remaining guards quickly cut the leather straps. Selka rubbed her wrists but did not move toward him.
Lucien turned back to Flint. "You have what you want. Now make sure you don't fail me."
Flint only smiled, stepping back into the shadows. "Oh, Chief," he said smoothly. "You will see. This will all work out exactly as it should."