Chapter 7: Break a leg or two
The next morning, the mountain's base was a cauldron of mist and murmurs. Fog rolled down from Black Mountain in thick curls, swallowing the lower valley and drifting around the massive stone arch that housed the spatial gate. Its carved inscriptions glowed faintly, pulsing as though the gate itself was waking for the first time in years.
Nearly a hundred people stood gathered a few metres away, voices low, excitement and fear mingling with the chill in the air.
"I heard the gate's being opened for some kid who got expelled from the clan," a man with stale liquor on his breath whispered.
"Is that true?" a woman asked, eyes widening.
"Don't listen to him—he's drunk," someone else snapped.
"Either way…it's not every day we see the gate open," the lady said, awe threading her voice.
"I don't think they're here for the gate," another man murmured, a sly glint in his eyes. "There's politics mixed in. Big ones."
"How so?"
He didn't have to answer.
"The elders… they're coming."
The crowd fell silent instantly.
The village elders strode toward the gate, mantles drifting behind them like banners caught in an invisible wind. Their successors followed closely — some ignoring the crowd, others basking in the worship. Mak was among the latter, smiling broadly, as if the presence of hundreds was simply his due.
From the sidelines, screaming broke out — high‑pitched, desperate.
"Master Lark!! We love you!!"
Girls waved embroidered scarves, swooning with every glance the young successor didn't bother returning.
A middle‑aged man sighed wistfully. "When I was his age… to be that popular…"
His friends nodded, sharing in his lament.
Roe — scar‑cheeked, predatory in posture — approached Lark with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Hahaha, still as popular as ever, Lark."
Lark's expression remained cool, uninterested. "Popularity is irrelevant. We only need to dismantle the Great Elder's camp."
"Yes, yes," Roe said eagerly, too loudly. "Our plan brings us closer to Master Mak's ambitions. And best of all, we get to shine without interference!"
Lark's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Do not get ahead of yourself. And do not forget your role."
Roe bowed quickly. "Of course, young lord. This lowly one wouldn't dare."
"Good." Lark fell back into step behind Mak.
At fifty years old, Lark was Mak's pride — a teleporter with budding, dangerous potential for temporal manipulation. Mak saw him as a genius; the rest of the clan whispered about his cruelty when they thought no one could hear.
"Lord Mak," Lark said quietly, "I don't see Tor yet. Do you think last night scared him into hiding?"
Mak's smile didn't falter, though venom threaded his tone. "If he's too afraid to show up, it gives us a perfect excuse to strip him of all privileges and make him a slave. The Elder's authority would crumble overnight."
"As expected of Master," Lark replied, eyes glinting. "But humiliating him first would be more fun. Killing him afterward would be even better."
Mak's grin widened. "I agree."
A sudden stir rippled through the crowd.
A royal horse carriage, gold‑plated and carved with shifting runes, rolled into view. The horses' hooves struck sparks against the stone. Gasps followed as the carriage door opened.
The Great Elder stepped out.
He wore his traditional robe, serene as ever — but today, he carried no sword.
A detail that did not go unnoticed.
The villagers fell into deep bows, expressions reverent, almost worshipful. To many, the Great Elder was the closest thing to a divine being.
To Tor, he would have been a divine menace.
Ter glanced over the crowd with the calm confidence of someone who had nothing left to prove. Then his eyes landed on Mak.
And he walked straight toward him.
The crowd parted instinctively, as if the mist itself made way for him. Whispers spread at lightning pace — the Great Elder didn't attend minor events. His presence alone elevated the occasion.
Ter stopped before Mak.
His gaze swept over Mak's enchanted armour and the sword strapped across his back.
"I see you came dressed for battle," Ter said, tone dripping with sarcasm.
Mak's jaw tightened. "Ter. No matter what position you hold, I am still your elder. You will show me respect. And further—"
"Yes, yes, Mak," Ter cut in lazily. "Relax. You're not fighting me today."
He turned away with a carefree swagger, leaving Mak simmering.
Mak's smile stretched thin, brittle. He raised his voice, ensuring the crowd heard.
"In any case, I do not intend to fight Tor. I would not want it said that I bully the weak."
Ter paused, glanced back with a smirk.
"Oh? If that's how you feel, then let me clarify… I wouldn't mind if you jumped in. Break a leg or two? I suppose Tor will decide."
A thunderous laugh followed, echoing across the clearing, and Mak's fury barely stayed beneath the surface. If he could, he would have strangled Tor where he stood.
The inscriptions on the spatial gate pulsed again.
The mist thickened.
The air vibrated.
The crowd shifted closer, breaths held.
The opening of the gate was moments away — and the boy whose name sat on every tongue still hadn't appeared.