* * * * *Outer World PoV* * * * *
The barbarians did not live by many laws.
They lived by one truth.
Survive strong.
Their camp sprawled across the valley like a living thing, shaped not by walls but by necessity. Hides stretched over bent timber formed clustered shelters, arranged in loose rings around central fire pits that never fully died. Smoke lingered constantly in the air, thin and gray, carrying the scents of meat, ash, sweat, and blood. There was no single boundary marking where the camp began—only the gradual shift from wild ground to trampled earth, stone cleared by countless bare feet and dragged carcasses.
Strength held the tribe together.
Not blood. Not promises. Power.
At the heart of the camp stood the Great Fire, a wide pit of blackened stone where the tribe gathered at night. This was where disputes were settled, where spoils of hunts were divided, and where warriors were called forth when war loomed. Around it lay the warrior grounds, flattened stretches of dirt stained dark from years of training and challenge. Broken spear shafts and chipped obsidian blades littered the edges, discarded without ceremony.
Beyond that, the camp branched outward by function rather than status.
To the east lay the hideworks, where pelts were scraped, stretched, and smoked. Bone needles and stone tools hung from wooden frames, and the rhythmic scrape of labor filled the air from dawn until dusk. To the south, racks of drying meat swayed in the breeze, guarded by children too young to fight but old enough to shout warnings. The smell there was heavy and clinging, a reminder that survival depended on what could be taken from the land—or from others.
There was no coin.
No tally marks carved into wood.
Everything moved by exchange.
A pelt for a blade. Meat for protection. Labor for favor. Strength for shelter.
Those who could hunt ate well. Those who could fight slept close to the fires. Those who could not were pushed to the outer edges of the camp, closer to the wilds, closer to death. No one argued the system. Nature itself enforced it.
Near the northern rise stood the chief's grounds, elevated and cleared, where only warriors and elders were permitted freely. The ground there was hard-packed and clean, marked by old challenge scars carved into stone—records of victories, failures, and deaths. The chief's tent loomed at its center, heavy with trophies and guarded at all hours.
It was from this place that trials were called.
And trials were everything.
To be acknowledged as a man, one had to prove usefulness through strength, endurance, or blood. Hunting trials, combat trials, endurance marches into the wilds—none were announced in advance, and failure carried consequences no one bothered to soften.
Shelter was not given.
It was earned.
For newcomers, survival depended on speed.
The clouds gathering in the distance were already thickening, heavy with the promise of rain. When it came, the ground would turn to sucking mud, the nights to cold misery. Without hides, without fire, without a place among the tribe, nature would finish what the eastern raiders had begun.
Adrian understood this the moment his bare feet touched the trampled earth of the camp.
They had been permitted to stay—but nothing more.
No shelter.
No food.
Only the space they could claim.
The plot assigned to them was little more than bare dirt on the outer ring of the camp, far from the fires, exposed to wind and rain alike. It was not a home. It was a test. A quiet challenge issued without words.
Livia did not argue it.
She could barely stand.
The grief still weighed on her shoulders, hollowing her eyes and slowing her steps. The camp's noise—the shouting, the clatter of tools, the laughter of warriors—passed over her like waves against stone. She followed Adrian mechanically, her spirit dulled by loss too fresh to scar over.
She would not be ready for trials.
Not yet.
Adrian knew it.
And the tribe would know it too.
Which meant there was no time.
While Livia was guided toward rest beneath a borrowed hide near the edge of the camp, Adrian turned toward the warrior grounds. The men and women there watched him openly, some with interest, others with amusement. New blood always drew eyes—especially blood that had not yet proven its worth.
If rain came before he earned shelter, they would both die.
So he walked forward without hesitation.
Toward the warriors.
Toward the trials of a man. Toward the first step in rebuilding what had been taken.
* * * * *Adrian's PoV* * * * *
Remembering what the chief's guard told me, a man named Tuk should be near the Great Fire to initiate the first trial.
I needed to be careful.
I had never hunted.
Never fought.
Depending on how this went, it could be my last.
The man sitting closest to the flames stood in stark contrast to the chief. Where the chief was built like a bear, this one was lean—thin, veined, his frame wiry rather than imposing. From behind, he looked almost ordinary. Average.
But the moment I stepped closer, he noticed.
Sharp eyes snapped toward me, locking on instantly. A grin tugged at his lips as I approached, uninvited, unprepared, wanting to begin the trials now. No rest. No mourning. No time to process the annihilation of my tribe.
Only a burning pressure in my chest, fueled by fear.
And fear, right now, was the only thing keeping us alive.
"So," he said, rising slowly to his feet, the firelight carving deep lines into his face, "you wish to start the first trial already? Hahaha!"
His tone surprised me.
It wasn't cruel.
Not brutish.
It was curious. Almost amused.
"Yes…" I hesitated, then forced the words out. "I'd rather get it over with."
The amusement vanished.
In an instant, he straightened, presence sharpening like a drawn blade.
"The trials are not a game, boy," he said coldly. "Go rest. Return later. Honor your dead."
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he looked me over like something unpleasant.
"Or do they mean so little to you," he continued, "that you'd rather not waste time grieving them either?"
Disgust edged his voice.
Something in me snapped.
That look.
The same look my tribe used to give me.
I didn't know why it always followed me—but it did.
Baring my teeth, fighting the surge rising in my chest, I spat back, "You think I want to be here? You think I don't know what this means?"
My voice grew rough. "I have to—"
I never finished.
In a blink, he grabbed my shoulders and drove his knee hard into my core.
The air exploded from my lungs.
"Ble—!" I choked, spit and breath spraying against his shoulder.
He hurled me to the dirt like discarded meat. I curled instinctively, coughing, vision blurring as he turned his back on me and began to walk away.
"A man without honor isn't a man," he said over his shoulder. "But now I understand why you're desperate."
He stopped.
Half-turned.
"You want the trial, boy?" His voice was sharp again. "Then bring me proof you belong here."
He pointed past the camp, toward the tree line where the wild thickened and shadows clung stubbornly even in daylight.
"Before the sun reaches its peak," he continued, "leave the camp alone."
A few nearby warriors turned to listen.
"Return with blood on your hands that is not your own."
My chest tightened.
"No spear," he added. "No blade. Use what the land gives you."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"If you come back empty-handed," Tuk said flatly, "you sleep in the rain." He looked down at me, eyes like flint.
"If you don't come back at all—" He shrugged.
"The wild has decided your worth."
I pushed myself to my feet, dirt clinging to my hands and chest, lungs still burning.
Fear curled tight in my gut.
But beneath it— Something else stirred.
"…I understand," I said.
Tuk nodded once.
"Then go," he said. "And prove you're more than grief wearing skin."
And with that, the trial began.