The night deepened, and the air grew heavy with a silence that seemed to stretch endlessly. Shadows danced in the pale moonlight, twisting and stretching across the wooden walls of the small hut. Veythor sat quietly on the makeshift bed, his gaze cold and unyielding. Tonight was the night. Erika's earlier words—that he could leave tomorrow—rang clear in his mind. A promise of freedom was nothing more than a death sentence disguised in honeyed words.
Her patience was running out, and Veythor had no doubt this was the endgame.
An average person in his position might have tried to escape the first chance they got, scrambling blindly into the dark forest. But desperation was the folly of the weak. Here, in the heart of the Yamika tribe's territory, escape was a laughable notion. The forest was an ally to its people, a labyrinth where only the tribes knew the paths to safety. Every shortcut, every hidden passage belonged to them.
And beyond the Yamika, other tribes—Nagarono, Kaika, Neverland—held sway in their own domains, their influence intertwined. The web of control was suffocating.
Veythor, however, was calm. He had no intention of fleeing like a frightened beast. His mind was already two steps ahead, his plan carefully laid out.
A soft knock broke through the silence, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Who's there?" he called out, his voice low and measured.
"It's me, Elena," came the familiar reply.
The corners of his lips curled upward into a dark smirk. His eyes gleamed with cold amusement. "Well, here it comes," he murmured under his breath.
The door creaked open, and Erika—disguised as Elena—stepped inside. A scarf covered the lower half of her face, but her eyes, those unmistakable blue eyes, betrayed her. They carried the same distant sorrow as her father's, tinged with something deeper, more personal.
Veythor had recognized her long ago. Her mannerisms, her voice, even the faint trace of her scent—it was all too familiar. But he said nothing, allowing her to play her game.
Her steps were cautious but deliberate as she approached. Gone was the unease she had shown before. In its place was cold resolve. She was no fool; Veythor knew she had likely seen through his feigned memory loss. But it had served its purpose, granting him time.
"Do you need something, Miss Elena?" he asked, his voice carrying a subtle edge of mockery.
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I… yes. But first, how are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," he replied curtly, watching her closely.
A pause hung between them, heavy and deliberate. Then she forced a smile, a fragile facade. "Good. Actually we are in a tribe called yamika I live in this tribe and the chief of the Yamika tribe wants to meet you. He's the one who treated your wounds and provided the healing potions."
Veythor leaned back slightly, his smirk widening. Her reasoning left no room for argument, her words carefully chosen to box him in.
"Very well," he said, rising to his feet. His movements were slow, deliberate, as the pain from his still-healing injuries flared up. He accepted the white robe she handed him, slipping it on without a word.
Together, they stepped out into the night.
The village was alive with activity. A towering bonfire blazed at its center, casting flickering light over the gathered tribespeople. Children danced around the flames, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic beat of drums. Adults knelt before a massive statue of Dogundra, their guardian deity. The statue's long, drooping ears obscured its face, adding an air of mystery to its imposing form.
As Veythor walked past, the children's laughter faltered. Their wide eyes followed him, a mix of fear and curiosity reflected in their innocent gazes. He met their stares with a cold, wicked smile, and they quickly looked away, their joy extinguished.
"Why did you stop?" Erika's sharp voice cut through the moment. She turned to glare at him, her tone laced with impatience. "Keep moving."
Veythor said nothing, his smirk remaining as he trailed behind her.
But as they walked, his suspicion grew. The path they were taking led away from the village center, away from the chief's hut. The air grew colder, the sounds of celebration fading into the distance.
Eventually, they emerged into an open field bathed in silver moonlight. At its center stood an old man. His hair was long and gray, falling over his eyes like a curtain. His beard was thick, obscuring much of his face. A gnarled wooden staff rested in his hand, and though he was barely taller than five and a half feet, there was an air of quiet power about him.
Veythor stopped, his eyes narrowing. Erika, however, continued forward without hesitation.
"What is the meaning of this, Miss Elena?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with menace.
She chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Meaning? Oh, you're still pretending, aren't you? Still clinging to your little act." She turned to face him, her eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "Did you really think your cheap tricks would work on me?"
Veythor laughed then, a deep, unsettling sound that made the air feel heavier.
"What's so funny, you bastard?" she snapped, her composure slipping for a moment.
"Nothing," he said, his laughter fading into a dark smile. "I'm just impressed. You're sharper than I gave you credit for, Miss Elena. Or should I say… Erika?"
Her eyes widened slightly, but she quickly regained her composure.
"It doesn't matter," Veythor continued, his voice soft but dangerous. "My plan was never meant to deceive you."
Before she could respond, the old man stepped forward. His voice was rough but steady, carrying a weight that seemed to press down on the field.
"It's been a long time, Veythor," he said. "But I see you've forgotten why you're here. This isn't the time for games or schemes. Tonight is your death hour. Prepare yourself."
A cold wind swept through the field, carrying with it the faint scent of blood. Veythor's smirk returned, bitter and cruel. His eyes gleamed with a cold, unyielding resolve.
"Death hour, you say?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "We'll see."