The Stonehorn Tribe came into view just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the open plains. The trio staggered forward, Lucy's fragile form cradled in Darius's arms, her breaths shallow and uneven.
The tribe's wooden fortifications loomed ahead—a massive, jagged wall of logs bound together with sinew and reinforced by stones at the base. Sharp spikes jutted out at irregular angles, a clear warning to any who dared approach. From the top of the barrier, warriors stood watch, their stern faces barely visible in the dimming light.
When the trio reached the gates, they found them tightly shut, a heavy wooden crossbar sealing them in place.
"Help us!" Ryden called out, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. He looked up at the warriors perched atop the wall. Their dark eyes bore down on him, suspicious and unyielding.
"We have a child!" he added desperately, gesturing to Lucy's unconscious body. "She's hurt—she needs treatment!"
The warriors exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. One of them, a man with a scar running down his cheek, finally leaned forward. "Outsiders aren't welcome here," he said flatly. "Move on."
Ryden's heart sank, but he stepped closer, his hands raised in a gesture of pleading. "Please," he said. "She'll die without help. We'll do anything—just let her in."
For a tense moment, the warriors didn't respond. Then, with a begrudging grunt, one of them shouted down, "Wait there."
The sound of wood scraping against wood filled the air as the gate was unbarred and pushed open just wide enough for the trio to enter.
As they stepped inside, the sight that greeted them was far from comforting. The Stonehorn Tribe's encampment was bustling, but it was a hive of exhaustion and misery.
The encampment was a grim tableau of exhaustion and oppression. Tribal workers, their clothes little more than frayed scraps patched with whatever materials they could scavenge, moved about like shadows of themselves. Their faces, gaunt and hollow from hunger, wore expressions of muted resignation. Each step they took seemed heavy, as if weighed down by more than just physical fatigue. The grinding of stone against grain filled the air with a monotonous rhythm, the sound of mortar and pestle punctuating the silence. A woman, her hands raw and blistered, struggled to keep the grain mill turning, her movements faltering with every rotation.
Nearby, a group of men squatted by makeshift fires. They worked with trembling hands, slicing root vegetables too shriveled to offer much sustenance and stirring watery gruel in soot-blackened pots. Their eyes were downcast, avoiding each other as much as the watchful gaze of their overseers. The air smelled faintly of burning wood and desperation, the fires barely warm enough to cook their pitiful meals.
Scattered around the camp, others mended tools and weapons with sluggish determination. A boy no older than ten struggled to reshape a warped spear, his small hands gripping a crude hammer as he fought to hold back tears. His overseer barked at him from a short distance away, the sharp command cutting through the dull murmurs of the camp.
The warriors stood apart, their postures imposing and unyielding. Their leather armor, reinforced with bone plates and decorated with carved sigils, gleamed dully in the flickering firelight. Each one carried weapons—spears, axes, and clubs—ready to be used at a moment's notice. Their eyes, sharp and calculating, roved over the workers with cold detachment, missing nothing. When a worker stumbled, a quick snarl or barked order brought them back in line. A warrior with a deep scar across his cheek held a wooden club in one hand, slapping it rhythmically against his palm as if in warning.
The atmosphere was thick, almost suffocating, with an unspoken tension that seemed to press down on everyone. The workers' movements were subdued, avoiding drawing attention, their fear palpable. Even the fires flickered weakly, as if reluctant to burn too brightly in such a place.
Overhead, the sky was a dull, oppressive gray, clouds hanging low as though mirroring the spirits of those below. The camp's edges were ringed with crude wooden palisades, their jagged points jutting upward like skeletal fingers. Beyond them, the world seemed to stretch on endlessly, a bleak expanse of rocky terrain offering no promise of escape.
The sense of despair was almost tangible, an invisible weight crushing the camp beneath it. Hope was a distant memory here, a thing long lost amid the drudgery and the ever-present threat of violence.
The trio was led to the center of the camp, where a large longhouse stood—constructed from thick wooden beams and covered with hides. Inside, a fire crackled in a pit at the center of the room, casting flickering shadows across the space.
At the far end of the longhouse sat Gastrar, the chief of the Stonehorn Tribe.
Gastrar was a massive man, his frame dominating the room. His chest was broad and his arms thick with muscle, but his stomach jutted out in a sign of overindulgence. He lounged on a raised platform covered in furs, a plate piled high with roasted meat and fruit in front of him. Grease dripped from his fingers as he tore into a hunk of meat, his teeth gnashing noisily.
Around him were attendants and warriors, their expressions a mix of wariness and respect as they hovered close to their chief.
Gastrar's piercing eyes, sharp despite his heavyset frame, immediately locked onto the trio as they were brought before him. His gaze lingered on their clothes and weapons, and his lips curled into a calculating smile.
"Outsiders," he said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "What brings you to my tribe?"
Ryden stepped forward, his face pale but resolute. He gestured to Lucy in Darius's arms. "This girl," he said. "She needs treatment. Please, she's hurt badly. We'll do anything."
Gastrar leaned back, his fingers steepled as he regarded them with mock curiosity. "Anything, you say?"
Ryden nodded
The chief let out a low chuckle, his eyes narrowing. "And what do you have to offer, outsiders? Our herbs are precious, our supplies scarce. I will not waste them on a child unless you give me something of value in return."
The trio exchanged baffled looks, their exhaustion mingling with frustration. "We're not here to trade," Darius said, his voice steady but tense. "We just need your help."
"Help isn't free," Gastrar said with a grin, his gaze dropping to the bronze spear in Darius's hand. His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. "That's an impressive weapon. Where did you get it?"
Darius stiffened, his grip tightening on the spear. He glanced at Ryden and Rice, then back at Gastrar. After a moment of hesitation, he said quietly, "I made it."
Gastrar's laughter boomed through the longhouse, startling the attendants. He motioned to one of his warriors, who strode forward and snatched the spear from Darius's hands.
The chief turned the weapon over in his hands, examining the gleaming bronze tip and the craftsmanship of the shaft. "This… you made this?"
Darius met his gaze, his expression unflinching. "Yes."
Gastrar's grin widened. "Impressive. Very impressive." He tossed the spear to a nearby attendant, then clapped his hands. "Treat the girl," he ordered.
Two attendants stepped forward, carefully taking Lucy from Darius's arms and carrying her away to be treated.
Gastrar looked back at the trio, his expression one of satisfaction. "And treat our guests to a nice tent," he added, wiping his greasy hands on his furs. "They'll be staying here for a while."