The morning of the Trials did not arrive gently.
It arrived with a scream.
A long horn-call echoed through the Herd-City, so deep it could be felt in the bone. Beneath the creature's thick hide, amber veins glowed as the colossal beast carrying the city shifted its stance. Towers creaked and bridges swayed while the entire city seemed to take a breath, preparing to move.
Eryndor sat upright before his eyes had fully opened.
"That," he said hoarsely, "was not a peaceful way to wake up."
Garruk was already on his feet, fastening his belt with steady hands. "That is the sign, it seems. The trial is about to begin."
Outside, the city was already in motion. Warriors poured from dwellings, fully armed. Drums began to sound, slow at first, then building into a measured rhythm that matched the deep heartbeat beneath the streets.
Eryndor, Lirien, and Garruk followed the crowd toward the trial grounds, a pavilion that rose like a large stadium—its platforms were made of wood and bone-like stone, surrounding a central arena carved into the beast's back. Under their boots, the ground pulsed faintly.
Eryndor glanced down. "Please tell me this does not collapse."
"It will not," Garruk said. He paused briefly. "Probably."
"That is not reassuring."
The crowd roared as contenders entered the arena.
Warriors stepped forward one by one—bull-kin with scarred hides and plated shoulders, the cold Wolf-kin that moved with liquid precision, The tiger-kin with their presence, stride forward, undeterred. Some wore armor. Others carried nothing but claws and confidence.
Eryndor studied them. "They feels serious,"
Lirien gave him a sidelong glance.
Garruk scratched his beard. "It is serious boy. People travel that far not only for a fun."
Before Eryndor could respond, the crowd shifted again.
Footsteps echoed along the central approach—heavy and unhurried—before a line of armored figures entered the pavilion. Ten beastfolk warriors strode forward in silent, precise formation. Their armor and equipment looked plain, worn from use rather than decoration. Their weapons remained sheathed. Behind them, walking with a steady, commanding calm, was the Ironfang, Marshal Darius Lohkar.
Eryndor leaned slightly forward. "Who are they?"
Garruk answered after a moment. "The Fangguard."
"So the Beastlord has arrived?"
"They should be," Garruk replied shortly.
As if answering Eryndor question the atmosphere changed again and at the edge of the city, where the plains met the beast, the air seemed to tighten. The ground shuddered once, not violently, but with intent. A new presence arrived— stepping on the air.
High-Chieftain Mahrak stood at the front of the platform. His bronze-decorated horns reflected the light. City Wardens, Totem-Seers, and clan representatives stood on both sides of him.
"She comes," one elder murmured.
A single figure approached.
Her stride was steady and unhurried, yet she seemed to fold space itself.
When she finally stepped at the edge of the platform, the noise of the crowd did not fade gradually. It simply stopped.
The city bowed.
Eryndor exhaled slowly. "So that is her."
Beastlord Nakira of the Eastern Plateau was not as large as he had imagined and prettier. Her beauty did not merely seek of admiration and praise, it was a beauty cloaked in grace and poise that those around her compel to lower their gaze in respect.
Mahrak stepped forward and struck his staff once against the platform.
"Your highness, Beastlord of the eastern plateau" he declared, his voice carrying across the arena. "The Herd-City welcomes you."
She did not answer him right away. Her golden eyes moved across the assembled leaders.
"I accept your welcome," she finally said. Her voice was low, steady, and carried without effort. "And I accept your ground."
A faint smile touched her mouth.
The formal exchange completed, the elders inclined their heads.
Nakira's gaze lingered.
She looked past the arena. Past the Fangguard-in-waiting. Past the cheering masses. Her attention shifted to the beast itself.
"This city is tense," she said casually.
A ripple moved through the leadership circle.
Mahrak did not deny it. "We have felt it as well."
"Hm, what do you say Marshal Darius?" She turned to the silent Marshal.
"I do not smell fear, your highness" He replied after a moment "I smell. readiness."
The Totem-Seer stepped forward. "We saw the Heart-Totem tightens and the support-beasts are restless but no external cause has been identified yet."
Nakira blinked once. "Then the cause is either within or approaching."
Her words were met with silence.
A younger elder spoke carefully. "The Trials will still proceed as planned, your highness. Canceling them would make the people restless"
"I did not suggest canceling them," Nakira replied, and she gave a short, quiet laugh. "I am only stating that something could be wrong."
She offered the younger elder a faint smile that did not reach her eyes.
Mahrak met her gaze. "We have increased patrols and restricted access to the deeper strucutres. The city is prepared."
Nakira studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "I believe you Chieftain."
She turned to address them all.
"The Trials will continue then. As strength must be proven."
She paused.
"But understand this. If blood is spilled outside the bounds of the Trial, I will not ask permission to respond."
She was smiling. Her eyes were not.
No one argued.
She then stepped past them and moved toward her throne on the central platform overlooking the arena. The Fangguard followed, with the Ironfang Marshal leading them.
As the city resumed its rhythm—cheers rising, drums beginning to thunder—Mahrak watched her go, unease settling deeper into his chest.
"She feels it as well," an elder murmured.
"Yes," Mahrak replied shortly.
The moment did not hold for long.
The city stirred again as low hum rolled across the upper air. A sleek vessel descended toward the eastern platforms. Its design was clean and controlled, symbols etched into its hull in precise geometric patterns.
When it landed, dwarves disembarked in disciplined formation. At their center walked an emissary with a partially masked face and faintly glowing markings.
Eryndor frowned. "Are those…?" He glanced toward Garruk
Garruk said. "They are from the Tazrik Clan."
"Don't worry They come as emissary and most likely won't recognize us." But He sounded unsure rather than certain.
The Tazrik emissary inclined their head toward the pavilion. The gesture was balanced— Not too deep. Not too casual either.
Queen Nakira returned the acknowledgment with a faint smile and brief nod.
Not long after, movement rippled once again, this time along the southern approach.
An archaic vessels floated forward, marked with complex symbols. A group of people followed—they were well-dressed in layers of clothing that seemingly was carefully constructed to resemble formal attire rather than armor.
At their head walked a woman whose eyes moved constantly.
Eryndor leaned forward slightly.
"That sigil is rather familiar," Eryndor added.
"They are from Matrabhumi," Lirien said curtly.
The human delegate bowed properly at the pavilion's edge.
"Observers are welcome," Nakira said, her voice even. "Interference is not."
Her smile was warm. Her eyes were not.
The delegations then were guided to their designated platforms. Beneath the pavilion, the arena floor shifted and tightened into defined patterns.
Nakira stood and raised one clawed hand. She addressed the contenders.
"Let the Hunt test you," she said. Her voice carried across the arena without effort.
"Let it break the weak."
"Let it reveal the worthy."
She lowered her hand and the arena erupted as the first phase, was about to begin.
Eryndor rested his forearms on the railing. Below them, warriors waited. Above them, foreign eyes watched. Around them, the City moved on, steady and patient.
"So," he said quietly, "this is the calm part."
"Seems so," Garruk replied.
"Doesn't feel like it'll last." Eryndor added.
While every eye remained fixed on the arena, somewhere beneath the sky of eastern plateau, other movements continued. Deliberate. Quiet. Unseen.
For now.