Anbenna, the White Citadel.
A youth barreled up the castle stairs, his mop of rich brown hair bouncing with each powerful stride.
His breathing was steady, unhurried a testament to peak condition as he sprinted through thousands of steps with the ease of someone born to move.
He skidded to a halt before a white door and didn't bother knocking. Pushing it open, he stepped inside.
Inside, a rich mahogany table dominated the room. Piles of documents had been pushed aside to make way for a simple plate of bread and a goblet of ale.
The Lord Commander, poised to take a bite, sighed and froze. Only this youth, this impossible boy would enter his office unannounced.
The youths names was Cassius. And he was the squire of the Lord Commander.
"What is it, Cassius?" he asked, setting down his meal with deliberate care.
"Areport from the meister," the youthsaid, his eyes gleaming. "A devil worshipper has been detected."
The Lord Commander's expression darkened immediately. "Where?"
"The Oak Forest," Cassius replied.
That was the official, name of the region where the five tribes dwelled.
The Commander nodded slowly, his mind flashing to the remnants of the Menstanza Empire.
What would a devil be doing in such a now backward, forgotten corner of the world? He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
It didn't matter. A devil worshipper was a devil worshipper, no matter their origins.
"The Order of Enforcers exists for such matters," he said, his voice calm but firm.
"Tell the meister to send a five-man team of squires. And yes… you may go as well."
Cassius' face split into a wide grin. "Thanks, Father!" he shouted, bolting from the room and slamming the door behind him.
"It's Lord Commander… to you," the Commander muttered, shaking his head, before returning to his meal, ale in hand.
***
Morven Tribe Hall
The hall was packed. Every man, warrior or not, had gathered, eyes flicking nervously between one another.
The low hum of whispered speculation filled the room, mixing with the scent of smoke and sweat.
At the center sat Harald. His once-proud frame was ravaged; one arm gone, clothing tattered and stained, his body bruised and battered.
He trembled, seated on the floor, eyes wide and unfocused. Fear clung to him like a second skin, palpable enough to make even the bravest glance away.
The Morven tribe chief, Jaro, stepped forward. His voice, calm yet resonant, cut through the murmurs.
"As many of you know, this is Harald a trusted man of my friend, the chief of the Traven tribe," Jaro began, his gaze sweeping the hall.
"Seeing him like this… I attempted to speak with him. But whatever he encountered… whatever he has seen… has terrified him beyond measure. He cannot speak of it, nor will he rest."
He paused, letting the weight of Harald's condition settle in the room. "I sent messengers to inform my friend, and it is because of their report that we hold this meeting today."
The men shifted in their seats, leaning forward, curiosity sharp in their eyes.
They were hungry for knowledge, for direction, for understanding in a world that had grown perilous and unpredictable.
"We five tribes are all that remain of the once-great Menstanza Empire," Jaro continued, his tone steady, measured. "We live in seclusion, separated from one another. Even when my sister married into the Traven tribe, tying our tribes by blood, this balance endured… until now."
A low murmur ran through the room, but Jaro raised a hand, and the hall fell silent.
"Reports from the Weyian tribe indicate that, weeks ago, an entity appeared, claiming to be the god Pilgrim. This being has vanished, but its actions had set events in motion. Soon, a son of the Olan chief will rise to power under a new name. By his hand, the Olan and Weyian tribes have united as one."
Faces in the hall registered shock, though few betrayed fear. The Weyian tribe was far too weak to add anything to an alliance with the Olan. It wouldn't make much difference.
"And the Xilan tribe," Jaro added, letting the words hang, "has aligned with this new power as well."
A ripple of arguments broke out. Some argued for diplomacy, urging the tribe to seek peace with this emerging force.
Others called for immediate action, planning to strike the united tribes while they were still fragile, still new together.
The hall erupted, voices clashing, fists pounding the wooden benches.
Jaro raised both hands, silencing the uproar.
"That is not all. The Traven tribe has joined them too. Every one of these tribes is now under a single, unprecedented command. This… this is not something we can ignore. Nor is it something we can underestimate."
The men stared at one another, faces pale, hearts racing. The room, once a place of order and council, had become a stage for the terrifying reality of a new power rising—a force that could remake the remnants of the Menstanza Empire forever.
"Thats why I've made contact with the Sword kingdom."
The men attempt to speak against this but Jaro raises his hand to stop them.
Personally he would rather the Morven tribe stay autonomous.
But his 2 options were submitting to Ishar or annihilation so he chose the third option. Submitting to the Sword kingdom.
"A distant master is safer than a nearby rival."
***
The forest gave way to open fields, and at last, the thirty men under Ishar's command rode into the Olan village.
Dust rose in their wake, settling over the worn cobblestones as the villagers peeked from their homes, eyes wide with curiosity and fear.
The journey had been long, grueling, but in that time Ishar had grown close to his men.
They had witnessed the carnage at Xilan, the shattered gates, the blood-soaked streets.
The men were led to believe that some beast had struck, and that the Chief, Harald, and his men were all dead.
Now they looked to Ishar, hope and awe tangled with uncertainty.
Whereas to the people of Xilan tribe, he was more than a leader he was a savior. He claimed the feat of destroying the chief and his forces.
He ensured the fallen Xilan chief received a proper burial, and captured the traitorous former queen and her scheming father.
When Ishar proposed that the Xilan submit to him as their leader, along with news of his merging of the the Weyian, Olan, Traven and soon the Morven tribe. They easily agreed. One by one they knelt, pledging fealty.
Now, as the Olan village stretched before him, Ishar's eyes narrowed. A small group approached familiar figures.
Squinting, he recognized the chief's first wife, her son, whose name Ishar had not forgotten and her daughter.
The daughter spurred her horse forward, stopping just short of the first wife.
"Why do you block my path?" Ishar asked, stepping lightly from his horse.
The first wife's gaze was hard, defiant. "Where is my husband, the chief?"
"Oh, do you not know?" Ishar mocked lightly, his scarred face betraying nothing. "Your chief has fallen. Torn to pieces in battle by a fierce beast."
Fear flickered across their faces, disbelief sharpening their features. "You lie!" the first wife spat, her voice trembling.
At that moment, the men returned, weary but alive. Seeing the warriors her husband had taken to battle come back without him, the truth began to dawn.
"Where is my husband?" she asked again, directing her question to the men themselves.
"Your husband is dead," one of the men said quietly, his voice steady. "Slain in battle like a true warrior."
The daughter collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face.
Lucien, the chief's son through the first wife, stepped forward. Rage and grief twisted his young features.
"Now that my father is dead," he said, voice rising, "I shall lead in his stead. Fight for me, bleed for me, and I shall do the same!"
He raised his spear high, and cried out "Huzzah!" echoing across the village.
Silence followed, then murmurs spread through the crowd, the weight of the declaration sinking in.
Bolin shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Lucien," he said, voice calm but firm, "we have fought with the chief. We have fought with Ishar. But we have not fought with you."
He kicked his horse into motion, the other men following suit. The villagers watched, on their eyes bearing down on Lucien.
Ishar clapped his hands together lightly. "I bid you fair well," he said.
Mounting his horse, he began to ride away. Then he stopped, turning to face them First wife once more.
"Leave tonight, if you value your lives," he warned, eyes sharp. "Leave your daughter. She is to be given to one of my men."
"No!" the daughter cried, her voice breaking, pleading.
Ishar spurred his horse and galloped off, unflinching, leaving her wailing as the dust swallowed him.