Chapter 3

  Throne of Beasts

  I clawed awake, heart racing against my chest. The dream again. No—the memory. Light seeping down through stained glass windows, casting patterns across the throne room floors. The Church of Light's priests circling me, their white and green striped robes. My brother's fingers—so like my own—wrapped around the dagger's hilt.

  "The younger prince has a soul of a weak fool," I'd overheard the priest whisper in the shadow of my father's funeral. My fist tightened. I listened. "Unlike his brother." The priest's lips had curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.

  I bowed my head, pretending to be thankful when they set my father's crown on me. their gestures proper and formal. But their eyes followed me like hungry hawks watching an injured rabbit.

  "Heretic!" The word sliced through the throne room like a blade as I signed the decree freeing the different races. Slaves they were... no more.

  "They are lesser creatures meant to serve us! We are God's chosen ones—they must remain as slaves!" one of them protested.

  Behind him, priests exchanged glances, eyes watching, calculating their next moves.

  The Church and nobility couldn't tolerate changes that threatened their comfort. Better to label me a heretic than admit their prosperity required others' suffering. Decrying and pillaging other races, masked by religious belief to achieve their greed.

  My quill scratched across several papers, drafting another reform proposal. Candles burned low, wax pooling on my writing desk.

  The cycle repeated endlessly while nothing truly changed. I snapped the quill between my fingers, watching ink spread like blood across my palm.

  I had tried to change my kingdom through their systems. Their rules. Their acceptable methods.

  My trusted guard found dead. My food tasted bitter. The pieces arranged themselves so gradually I never saw the trap until my brother stood in the throne room doorway, the Church of Light priests standing at his shoulders, the daggers in his hand staring at my face—blades that could kill a magic user.

  The dreams had come again—fragments of my execution. My brother's face.

  I underestimated their resolve. And my brother's ambition.

  The throne. The Church offered it to him for a simple price.

  My life.

  Haunted by fragments of my past life, I pushed myself upright on the fur mat, crossing my legs.

  This world offered second chances. Here, in this remote clan.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Real change never came from within corrupt structures. It came from tearing them down and building something new from the ruins.

  Saying this to myself as I got up, I stepped outside, feeling the village stir with activity. Hunters gathered at the lower platforms. Young apes sat in a circle, listening to elder apes teachers who offered criticism alongside wisdom.

  From a distance, the village appeared to grow from the mountainside itself, a living extension of the terrain rather than an imposition upon it. Each level served specific purposes in clan life. The highest platforms, closest to the twin peaks, housed my father's dwelling and the elder council chambers.

  Below these, the middle platforms supported the majority of clan dwellings—circular structures with hide coverings stretched over wooden frames, smoke holes at their centers releasing thin wisps. These living quarters were arranged in concentric patterns around communal spaces where cooking fires burned.

  The learning halls occupied their own dedicated platform, distinguished by their larger size and the peacock feather banners that hung from ridge poles. These structures housed not just teaching spaces but repositories of clan knowledge—carefully preserved hides, ceremonial objects, and the physical memory systems that recorded our history without written language.

  Lower platforms extended outward rather than downward, following the curves of the mountainside and incorporating living trees as structural elements. These areas housed craftworkers, food preparation zones, and storage facilities. Some platforms were partially covered, providing shelter while allowing work to continue regardless of weather conditions.

  Defensive needs shaped every aspect of the village design.

  Despite the harsh environment and constant survival concerns, the clan maintained rich social traditions. Gatherings around the central fire pit served multiple purposes—social bonding, information exchange, dispute resolution, and simple relaxation after physically demanding days.

  From my vantage point on the upper platforms, I could see the entire village spreading below me— apes moving with practiced ease across narrow walkways, smoke rising from cooking fires to merge with clouds that clung to the mountain peaks. A civilization suspended between nature and sky, fragile yet enduring.

  As I was about to descend to the village learning hall to learn more about the desert clan, I heard commotion in the council chamber yurt. The guard at the entrance saw me, bowing respectfully. Before I could announce myself, raised voices from within caught my attention.

  "The trespassers have established a camp just beyond the south of the redwood forest," "Desert markings, as suspected," I heard a voice say.

  As I got closer to the entrance, I paused. I saw my father slam his fist on the council wooden table. "Make no mistake—these aren't wanderers.”

  Elder Siku nodded vigorously, his battle scars and gray fur showing his age. "We should strike now, before more arrive. Drive them back beyond our borders with a show of force they won't forget."

  Elder Kotori leaned forward "We should eliminate them now. A single hunting party could clear them out before the next moon rises."

  His confidence wasn't misplaced—our clan's warriors' skills were honed against threats far deadlier than a few desert dwellers.

  "Is that wise?" Elder Aori countered, her voice calm yet firm. "We know nothing of their intentions or capabilities. Knowledge before action has always been our way."

  Eyes locked on the map, my father's finger moved smoothly across its surface. His hand still tracing, he asked, "What do you suggest, then?"

  "Send a few scouts," she responded. "Our best trackers. Assess their strength, their equipment. Then we decide whether to drive them out or eliminate them entirely."

  The spymaster nodded in agreement. "The Desert Clan hasn't been seen this far south in generations. Something drives them here—information we might use to our advantage."

  I was about to step forward when a young warrior burst into the council yurt, his chest heaving from exertion. "Chieftain! Our hunters and some of our villagers are missing from the eastern village. And we found this."

  The warrior placed several bloodied crystal stones on the table—recovered near the village. Some were yellow, bright red, and purple.

  Chaos erupted in the chamber. I slipped away, my mind racing, hoping Elsu was still alive.