The adrenaline of the battle had long since faded, replaced by the dull, sticky reality of the aftermath. Antares sat on a moss-covered protrusion of rock near the edge of the clearing, watching his army work. The harvest was being prepared for transport, tones of meat, high grade monster bones, monster blood, venom sacks and alot more.
but on the other end Antares felt gross.
There was no other word for it. The glory of killing a eighty-meter Alpha Stonefang was undeniable, but the physical cost was a layer of coagulated blood that covered him from his boots to his hairline. It smelled of copper, musk, and wet iron.
He reached down and scooped up a handful of pristine, white snow. He packed it against his scalp, grimacing as the freezing temperature that sent a shockwave through his skull. He scrubbed vigorously, hoping the melted snow would act as a solvent for the dried gore.
But it didn't work.
Instead of cleaning him, the snow merely turned into a freezing, pinkish slush that trickled down the back of his neck and inside his fur coat.
"Useless," Antares muttered, flicking the bloody slush from his hand. "Absolutely useless."
He sighed, running a hand through his long, wild black hair, which now stood in stiff, spiked clumps. His red eyes narrowed in annoyance. He missed hot showers. He missed soap that smelled like lavender. He missed the simple dignity of being clean.
"If the alpha didn't kill me, this smell definitely will," he whispered to himself, a dry, self-deprecating smirk touching his lips. "I cannot get this filth off my head without a bucket of hot water."
He decided to give up. He would deal with it when they returned to the camp.
Boredom began to set in. He watched the Ashfang warriors hacking at the serpent carcasses. It was grueling work. The scales of the Stonefang were hard as stone, requiring the warriors to use their weapons till they became blunt to pry them loose before they could slice the meat.
"Careful with the venom sac kid!" a veteran shouted to a younger soldier. "You pierce that, and the meat spoils! Do you want to explain to the King why we're eating poison instead of fine meat?"
"I've got it, I've got it!" the younger antman replied, sweating despite the cold.
Antares leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. The sounds of the forest—the wind in the Iron-Oaks, the clack of tools, the murmurs of the men created a rhythmic white noise.
BOOM.
The sound shattered the peace like a hammer striking a war drum.
Antares's eyes snapped open. That wasn't the sound of a falling tree or a dropped carcass. That was the sound of impact. That was the sound of violence.
He stood up instantly, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of Eos. The chatter in the clearing died out immediately. Every head turned toward the source of the noise, a cluster of trees near the eastern perimeter, where a group of Ashfang warriors and Yanrid had been collaborating on securing the perimeter.
Antares didn't walk; he blurred. He crossed the clearing in seconds, pushing through the gathering crowd of soldiers.
"Make way!" he commanded, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight.
The soldiers parted like water, revealing the scene.
A massive Iron-Oak tree, its trunk as thick as a house, had a spiderweb of cracks radiating from its center. Bark and wood chips littered the snow. Slumped at the base of the tree, coughing up blood, was Azir.
Antares recognized him immediately. Azir was a rising star in the Ashfang Clan, he was one of the many sons of Yajin. He was talented, strong, and possessed a great physical potential. But he was also arrogant, loud, and believed that raw strength was the only metric of worth.
Standing ten feet away was Yanrid who stood perfectly still, his posture relaxed, almost casual. But the air around him was shimmering. It wasn't the heat of rage; it was a profound, biting cold. Frost was beginning to creep across the moss at his feet, turning the green to white.
"Get up," Yanrid said softly. His voice lacked its usual detachment. It was brittle, like thin ice over a deep lake.
Azir groaned, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth. He looked up, his eyes burning with humiliation. To be punched by the bastard son of his father was an insult he couldn't swallow.
"Is that all you have, half-brother?" Azir spat, forcing himself to his feet. He staggered, but his pride held him upright. "You hit like a falling leaf. No wonder you spend your time hiding in the dirt while real warriors do the fighting, I bet you were hiding while others did the work for you."
Yajin stepped forward from the crowd, his face darkening. "Azir! Stand down! You are embarrassing the clan."
"Embarrassing?" Azir turned to his uncle, his face twisted in a sneer. "I am speaking the truth! We bled today! the line held against these small serpents while he—" he pointed a shaking finger at Yanrid "—ran around throwing ice cubes! And now he dares to strike me because I told him the truth?"
Yanrid didn't move. He didn't defend himself. He simply watched Azir with those icy blue eyes, waiting.
"You provoked him, Azir," a warrior shouted from the back. "You called him a coward!"
"He is a coward!" Azir roared, his temper flaring out of control. He turned back to Yanrid, stepping closer. "You think because the King lets you walk in his shadow that you are one of us? You are nothing. You are and will always be the bastard my father didn't have the heart to abandon."
Antares watched, his brow furrowed. He was about to intervene, to order them both to stand down, but he saw something in Yanrid's eyes. A restraint. Yanrid was holding back. He was giving his brother a chance to walk away.
But Azir was too stupid, or perhaps too proud, to take it.
"Tell me, Yanrid," Azir sneered, lowering his voice so it carried a venomous, personal weight. "Is it true what the elders of our clan say? That your mother was a whore? who used her charm to seduce father, that her goal was to usurp my mother, answer me you son of a whore!."
The temperature in the clearing plummeted.
It wasn't a metaphor. The moisture in the air instantly crystallized. The breath of the soldiers turned into thick white plumes.
Yanrid's expression didn't change, but the air around his right fist condensed into a solid, jagged gauntlet of blue ice.
"You should not have said that," Yanrid whispered.
Azir didn't even see it coming.
Yanrid moved. It wasn't the heavy, thundering charge. It was the silent, sudden arrival of a blizzard.
He closed the gap in a fraction of a second.
Azir tried to bring his arms up to block, but he was fighting an avalanche.
Yanrid didn't punch him this time. He grabbed Azir by the throat and slammed him into the ground. The earth shook. Before Azir could recover, Yanrid raised his other hand, the ice-gauntlet forming a deadly, sharp point. He aimed directly for Azir's temple.
This wasn't a discipline strike. This was an execution.
"YANRID!" Yajin shouted, lunging forward.
But Yajin was too far away. The ice spike was descending. Azir's eyes went wide with the realization of his own death.
CLANG.
A shockwave of dense, red energy rippled outward, blowing the snow away in a ten-meter circle.
Antares stood between them.
He had caught Yanrid's wrist inches from Azir's face. The King's grip was like a vice of iron. His red eyes locked onto Yanrid's blue ones. The collision of their auras—the burning red and the freezing blue—created a hissing steam that enveloped them.
"That is enough," Antares said. His voice wasn't a shout. It was calm, absolute, and terrified everyone who heard it.
Yanrid was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. The rage in his eyes was blinding. He looked at Azir, then at Antares. For a second, it looked like he might try to fight the King to get to his target.
"He... he spoke of her," Yanrid rasped, his voice trembling with a raw, unhealed pain. "He spoke of my mother ill of my mother sire."
"I heard him," Antares said, not loosening his grip. "And he will be punished. But you will not kill a warrior of the tribe. Not today. Not while I am watching."
Antares squeezed Yanrid's wrist, just enough to remind him who was stronger. "Look at me, Yanrid. Do not let his poison turn you into a murderer of your own kin. You are better than that."
Yanrid stared at Antares. Slowly, the ice covering his fist began to crack and fall away. The murderous light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. He nodded once, stiffly.
Antares released him.
On the ground, Azir was gasping for air, clutching his throat. He looked up, realizing he was alive, and his arrogance began to flood back. He opened his mouth, likely to say something foolish to save face.
"I..." Azir started.
WHAM.
A massive fist, scarred and heavy as an anvil, connected with the side of Azir's head.
Azir's eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped into the snow, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Yajin stood over his nephew, shaking his hand out. The clan leader looked furious—not at Yanrid, but at the boy on the ground.
"Fool," Yajin growled. He looked at Antares, bowing deeply. "My apologies, Sire. The boy lacks discipline. He lacks honor. I will see to it that he learns both, or he will never hold a spear again."
"See that you do," Antares said, straightening his coat. He looked down at the unconscious Azir.
"He has potential, Yajin. But a tongue that loose will get us all killed. Keep him in the camp amd assign him to do hard work until he learns to respect the chain of command."
"It will be done," Yajin promised.
Antares turned to Yanrid. The Scout Master was standing apart from the group, staring at the tree where Azir had first impacted. He looked isolated, wrapped in a shroud of invisible winter.
"Yanrid," Antares said softly.
Yanrid didn't turn. "I am fine, Sire. I will organize the troops for our return to the camp."
He walked away before Antares could say another word. The soldiers parted wide to let him pass, looking at him with a new mixture of fear and respect. They had always known Yanrid was dangerous, but they had never seen the ice in his veins until now, and how dangerous it could be.
Antares watched him go, feeling a pang of sympathy. He knew what it was like to defend the memory of a parent. He wanted to go after him, to offer a word of comfort, but he knew men like Yanrid. They didn't want comfort. They wanted silence.
"Alright!" Antares clapped his hands, breaking the tension that hung over the clearing. "Show's over! Load the wagons and carts! We march in ten minutes! I want to be back at the camp before the moon hits the peak!"
The soldiers scrambled to obey, eager to put the incident behind them.
The journey back to the camp was efficient, but somber. The celebration that had been brewing after the serpent hunt had been dampened by the infighting. The long column of troops pushing carts and wagons, moved through the darkening forest, the only sounds being the chittering of the insects and the crunch of snow.
Antares walked at the front, with Yajin and Velas flanking him. But his eyes kept drifting to the rear of the vanguard.
Yanrid walked alone.
Usually, Yanrid was in constant motion—checking the flanks, talking to his runners, coordinating with the other officers. But tonight, he marched in a solitary bubble. His aura was so cold that the snow didn't melt beneath his boots; it froze harder. The air around him was visibly shimmering, a personal atmosphere of frigid rejection.
Even the other warriors gave him a wide berth.
"He will cool down," Yajin muttered to Antares, noticing the King's gaze. "The boy struck a nerve. A deep one."
"It was more than a nerve," Antares replied quietly.
"Azir is a fool," Velas added from the other side, his voice carrying the calm of the wind. "But Yanrid... I have never seen him lose control like that. It is concerning."
"He didn't lose control," Antares corrected. "He focused it. If he had lost control, Azir's head would be a block of ice right now. He held back until the insult crossed the line, I'm not sure I would've been able to do anything if he went all out at that moment."
Antares sighed, pulling his fur coat tighter against the night chill. "Leave him be for tonight. Do not try to engage him. Let him process it. Tomorrow, we have the mission to the Godwall. I need him sharp for that. If he's still like this in the morning... then I will step in."
The group marched on in silence.
As they finally crested the ridge and the camp came into view, the watch-fires burning like beacons of safety in the night, Antares felt a heaviness settle in his chest.
Building a kingdom wasn't just about killing monsters or gathering resources. It was about managing the volatile, messy hearts of his people. Today he had slain a great beast, but he had more work ahead of him.
He looked back one last time at the lonely, icy figure of Yanrid trailing in the dark.
Rest well, my friend, Antares thought. The cold protects, but do not let it consume you.
They passed through the gates, the heavy timber doors closing behind them with a finality that signaled the end of the long day.
Antares walked toward his tent, the dried blood still itching on his scalp, his mind already racing toward the morning and the mountain that awaited them. but for now he was going to go and get a nice bath and a goodnight sleep.