Imperial Elder Guyi reached the Southern Creeks at first light, his sun-forged copper skin muted by dust and distance. His long silvery-black hair was braided tightly down his back, bound with dark cord in the Argathe style, the braid resting against an ash-black cloak stitched with faint spiral-triangle motifs along the hem.
An Orun-Tali brow pendant lay between his broad shoulders, the inverted teardrop heavy with the weight of judgment rather than ceremony.
Villagers bowed instinctively, Asha bead anklets chiming in nervous rhythm.
"You came," a fisherman said, voice shaking with relief.
Guyi dismounted. His boots sank into damp soil. He pressed his palm to the ground, eyes narrowing. "This land remembers us," he said. "It will not forgive theft."
A young warrior approached swiftly, his broad-shouldered tunic of ash-gold and river-blue rippling with each step, the ceremonial Ehuri Chain at his waist jingling softly.
One arm held his thorn-spear with rigid precision.
"Your Excellence," he called, voice steady but urgent, "the Council says negotiations hold. Othmir won't cross treaty lines."
Guyi studied him. "Hmm… pray so."
Villagers gathered closer. A woman clutched her child. "Will they protect us?"
Another asked. "The council promised…"
Guyi turned, towering, his shadow cutting across the reeds. "That's why we're here," he cut in.
A murmur spread.
Confidence followed him like heat.
An officer leaned in. "Scouts report movement beyond the ridge."
Guyi's jaw tightened. "How close?"
"Enough to hear metal breathing."
Guyi straightened, scarred hands steady.
"Sound the watch. No one flees."
"But sir, "
"This ground is sacred," Guyi said. "Ancestry isn't negotiable."
Night fell uneasy. Fires burned low. Guyi stood alone at the water's edge when footsteps approached.
"They trust you," the officer said.
Guyi didn't look back. "Trust breaks easily."
At first light, a distant hum rolled across the marsh, deep and patient. The water shivered. Birds scattered.
Guyi lifted his gaze as dark shapes crested the horizon, iron limbs catching the dawn.
The marshy ground quivered under the rhythm of Othmir's drills, each strike of metal against earth echoing like distant thunder. Sunlight glinted off bronze and iron, but the Argathe lines held, disciplined and taut.
Elder Guyi stood at the forefront, Orun-Tali pendant catching the weak light, red eyes narrowed beneath the braided silvery-black hair that fell across his broad shoulders. His Fire-glass Atari Bands chimed faintly with each step, a subtle drumbeat of warning.
Onny Hart noticed the earrings first, the crescent moons at Guyi's ears, their tips stained a deep red-dark ochre, the mark of binding authority.
His fleshy hand lifted at once; the drills slowed, then died, metal sighing into silence. He dipped his head just enough to resemble respect, one palm pressed theatrically to his chest, the other raised to signal obedience without surrender.
Guyi did not raise his voice. He recited the law with surgical calm. "By the Proclamation of Independence, ratified before witnesses and sealed by mutual withdrawal, all Argathe soil, surface and deep, remains sovereign in perpetuity. No foreign charter, enterprise, or necessity grants claim, passage, or extraction without Argathe consent."
His red eyes held steady. "The land answers only to its people."
Hart's jaw tightened. He gave a slow, indulgent nod, smiling thinly, authority conceding nothing, understanding everything.
Young warriors adjusted their grips on thorn-spears and Kava Blades, muscles coiled like springs.
Fire-Spine staffs hissed faintly as resin embers flared, a show of ancestral might. The enemy paused, uncertainty in their ranks, but Guyi sensed the fragility of order.
Days stretched thin.
"A dozen crate short," an officer muttered, kicking at an empty sled. "That makes three."
"What happened to supplies?"
"They swear it left the capital," another replied, voice low, eyes darting. "Stamped and Counted."
"Something doesn't feel right."
A runner arrived, boots soaked, breath ragged. "The grain convoy rerouted," he said. "New orders at the gates."
"Orders?" a captain snapped. "From who?"
The runner swallowed. "The Prime Minister. He said the route needed 'review.'"
A third voice cut in, bitter. "Review, my foot. They're slowing us."
Silence followed, thick with what no one dared say.
A commander broke from the line, his fire-glass bracelets clicking as he stopped before Guyi. He kept his voice down, but the strain showed.
"Elder," he said, "the Palace and the Assembly are not speaking with one mouth."
Guyi turned slightly. "Explain."
"The Elders Council's directive came at dawn," the commander continued. "Signed and sealed. It orders us to secure the Creeks under ancestral mandate, full authority granted to you as Imperial Elder."
A pause. He drew a breath.
"An hour later, a federal dispatch arrived from the Prime Minister's office. Civil seal. It instructs us to avoid escalation, suspend all forward action, and defer land disputes to parliamentary review."
Murmurs rippled behind them.
"One command binds us to the soil," the officer muttered, "and the other tells us to step off it."
"The Elder's Council invokes the Crown's residual powers," the commander said carefully. "The Prime Minister invokes civilian oversight."
Guyi's eyes hardened. "And the men?"
"They're asking which Argathe still rules," the commander admitted. "The old law… or the new paper."
A pause.
"What do we do now, Elder?"
Guyi gave a brief sigh.
His jaw tightened, scarred hands tightening his grip on his Kava blade.
He blinked.
"We hold." he said, though unease knotted his chest.
The hum of marsh insects, once background, now felt like a drum of warning.
Orders tangled in the Argathes bureaucracy, threads of command fraying with every hour.
Suddenly, a messenger arrived, mud-caked and panting. Guyi took the parchment, breaking the seal. His eyes darted down, scanning the characters.
His shadow fell long across the water. The parchment trembled in his hands. The Elder's council had revised the orders.
Movement restricted.
Authority curtailed.
The marsh held its breath.
Guyi's grip tightened on his Kava Blade. Something in the reeds shifted. He realized, slowly, that control might not survive till dawn.