Chapter 10: The Feast of Chains
The land was divided—not by lines on parchment maps or walls of stone, but by nature itself. Mountains with jagged peaks, thick forests filled with beasts and darkness, and rivers that roared like ancient dragons separated the tribes. Each tribe claimed its own corner of the world, isolated from one another by roughly two kilometers of impassable terrain. These were not friendly neighbors, nor did they often meet. Trust was rare. Conflict was history. Survival was the only law.
Among them, the Brakkar Tribe lived nearest to the Dark Forest—a place most feared to tread. There, the trees blotted out the sun, and the beasts that prowled beneath the canopy were nightmares given flesh. But the Brakkar had no choice. They were the smallest tribe, poor in weapons, lacking in resources. Their tools were carved from bones and hardened wood. Their traps were primitive, barely enough to catch deer or wild boars. Yet, they endured. They risked their lives daily, hunting in the darkness so that their children could sleep under the stars.
In contrast, other tribes like the Ragnar, Volken, and Durath thrived. They had numbers, they had iron, they had horses—and they had knowledge, thanks to regular contact with merchants from the mainland. They traded spices and grains for diamonds, gemstones, and rare pelts. The mainlanders saw the barbarian tribes not as equals but as fools to be exploited. The Brakkar were the easiest target. Their ignorance of commerce, politics, and etiquette made them a goldmine for unscrupulous traders.
Tyris had watched all this unfold from the shadows for over two months.
He did not engage with the tribes. He did not speak or interfere. He simply observed—from the heights of cliffs, the hollows of trees, and the safety of shadows. He documented their movement patterns, numbers, rituals, and strategies. He studied how each tribe governed, how they celebrated, how they punished, and how they fought.
The Brakkar, despite their limitations, had something Tyris valued above all else: innocence and desperation. They were the most likely to accept him. The most likely to believe in a savior. And he would become that savior—earn their loyalty, mold them into a loyal clan, and use them as his foundation for the future.
But first, he needed a way in.
That opportunity came unexpectedly—on the night of the Great Feast.
From atop a giant, hollow-barked tree, hidden by foliage, Tyris saw the Brakkar village awash in flame light. Torches blazed, meat roasted on open spits, and the air was filled with song and dance. Tonight, the Brakkar welcomed an unexpected but honored guest—the Ragnar Tribe. The tension was thick, but the smiles were forced to cover it.
The Brakkar had set a large circular area for the feast, marked by stones and carved totems. On the right side sat the most important members of the Brakkar:
Marko Brakkar, the tribe head, with his worn wolf-fur cloak and grizzled beard.
Sofia Brakkar, his quiet but wise wife, her eyes always scanning the crowd.
Maria Brakkar, their daughter, barely of marriageable age, yet with the bearing of someone who had seen too much.
On the left side, like a shadow cast across the firelight, sat the Ragnar leaders:
Singha Ragnar, a broad-chested man with steel armor and a voice like thunder.
Roy Ragnar, his son, younger and more reckless, his eyes sharp and predatory.
Aber Ragnar, Singha's younger brother, a battle-scarred warrior with cold logic in his gaze.
The Ragnar entourage had arrived in force—100 warriors, 30 of them riding Longma, the dragon-horses of legend, beasts with scales like silver and manes like wildfire. Their swords gleamed in the torchlight. Their shields bore the marks of many battles. They did not come to feast. They came to dominate.
Despite this, the Brakkar smiled. They welcomed the guests with roasted meats, fermented fruit wine, and bone-instrument music. Children danced. Elders sang tales of hunts and survival. Laughter echoed, but it was hollow.
From his high perch, Tyris narrowed his eyes.
"This isn't a feast," he murmured to himself. "It's a funeral wrapped in honey."
At the center of the gathering, Marko stood and raised his wooden goblet filled with dark, fragrant wine.
"To our honored guests!" he boomed, his voice hoarse but full of pride. "To the Ragnar who crossed mountains and rivers to feast with us. May our friendship last beyond the stars!"
A roar of cheer followed. But not all joined in.
Maria sat still, her hands clenched beneath the table. Her eyes darted occasionally to Roy, whose hungry gaze barely left her. He leaned toward his father, whispering something crude. Singha merely laughed, slapping his son on the back.
Then came the moment that shifted the air.
As Marko returned to his seat, Singha rose.
"My friend," he said loudly, holding his own metal goblet, "you know your people are brave. But... you are fading."
Laughter. Nervous chuckles. Marko's smile twitched.
"Let us not ignore the truth," Singha continued, "our world changes. The Brakkar are shrinking. My own scouts tell me you can barely hunt enough meat for your fires."
Marko opened his mouth, but Singha held up a hand.
"So, let us be honest. Why not unite our tribes? Join hands—and become strong together."
A silence fell.
Marko's lips pressed into a line. His wife placed a hand gently on his knee.
Singha smiled wide.
"And... if I may suggest," he said, laughter in his voice, "why not start this union with a wedding?"
He gestured to his son.
"Roy is strong, handsome, and clever. And Maria... she's of age. Think of it—a future where the Brakkar and Ragnar are one."
Roy laughed softly, locking eyes with Maria.
"Father, you read my heart. She's beautiful."
Maria's face turned pale. Her breath caught in her throat. She had heard the whispers. Even during their brief visit, the maids whispered about Roy trying to corner a servant girl, grabbing her while she served bread. She escaped, but the fear in her eyes was real. And now this man wanted her as a bride?
Her eyes turned to her father. Pleading. Her mother held her hand tightly.
Marko said nothing. Not yet.
He looked across at Singha's warriors. So many. Heavily armed. Trained. And his own people? Tired. Poorly equipped. Weak. He was a leader—but what could he lead if his people were slaughtered?
Tyris watched all this with cold detachment.
"This is perfect," he whispered.
If Marko rejected the offer, war would follow. If he accepted, the Brakkar would become subjugated, the daughter enslaved in silk. Either way, the tribe was vulnerable. Tyris now had his window.
He slid down the tree silently, landing in a crouch. Tonight, he would sneak into the Brakkar camp—not as a warrior, but as a wandering monk, a lost seer, or perhaps a humble survivor. The feast would last until dawn. Guards would be drunk. Fires would burn low. And he would reach Maria before anyone else.
Perhaps... just perhaps... the girl would be the key.
As the drums beat faster and the dancers spun like wind-spirits, Roy approached Maria with a mug of wine.
"We'll make fine children," he whispered to her, brushing her arm.
Maria recoiled, standing sharply. Her goblet fell and shattered. All eyes turned.
Sofia stood with her, shielding her daughter with her body. Marko rose slowly.
Roy looked confused, then angry.
"She's just shy," he laughed nervously, glancing at his father.
But Singha didn't laugh now. He looked at Marko with a colder gaze.
"You are insult me, old friend?"