CHAPTER THREE: DEFIANCE AND DECLARATION

  Year 10, Duskwell's End

  As the seasons come and go the winter training arena no longer serves merely as a proving ground. It had transformed into a stage—a theatre of ritual combat where reputation and rank were won through blood and skill. Frost rimmed the ancient stone ring, glittering like crushed diamonds in the pale morning light. Steam rose from the gathered bodies of the Tharnak tribe, their breath mingling with the frigid air as they pressed closer, hungry for the spectacle about to unfold.

  At the center stood Sarkan, leaner than most but composed like a drawn blade. While others stamped their feet and clapped their hands against the cold, he remained perfectly still, silver eyes taking in everything around him. His breath emerged in steady, controlled plumes, a stark contrast to the huffing and roaring of his peers.

  Elder Krogar's voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd, deep and resonant as distant thunder.

  "The winter trials continue," he announced, his massive frame silhouetted against the gray morning sky. "Today's matches determine who will join the war parties when the thaw comes." His amber gaze swept across the assembled youths before settling on Sarkan with particular intensity. "Show your strength. Show your worth to the tribe."

  Varn stood at the edge of the circle, arms crossed over his broad chest, lips curled in poorly concealed contempt. The years had only widened the gulf between them—Varn had grown into his frame, towering over most adult warriors, while Sarkan remained compact, his strength less obvious but no less deadly.

  "First match," called Gorvak, who stood beside Krogar as war chief and judge. "Drukk against Sarkan."

  A hulking youth stepped into the ring, muscles bunched beneath his furs, a confident smirk playing across his tusked face. He slammed his fists together, drawing appreciative howls from his supporters.

  "I'll break you, witch-son," Drukk snarled, loud enough for the crowd to hear and laugh.

  Sarkan didn't respond. He simply shifted his weight, assuming a stance that seemed almost casual in its ease.

  The match began without ceremony.

  Drukk charged forward, a mountain of fury and momentum. His first swing would have shattered bone had it connected—but Sarkan was no longer there. He moved with fluid precision, stepping inside Drukk's guard as though the larger orc was moving through honey rather than air.

  Three strikes—economical, targeted, devastating. One to the solar plexus. One to the knee. One to the throat.

  Drukk collapsed, gasping, bewildered by how quickly his aggression had been turned against him.

  The crowd fell silent, their expectations of a prolonged battle shattered by the clinical efficiency of Sarkan's technique.

  "Match to Sarkan," Gorvak declared, his voice devoid of surprise.

  And so it continued. One after another, opponents entered the ring. One after another, they fell before Sarkan's controlled precision. He didn't dominate through strength or brutality. He dismantled through technique and an almost supernatural awareness of where his opponents would be before they moved.

  From the edge of the crowd, whispers spread like ripples in still water:

  "He fights too clean."

  "No rage. Where's his fury?"

  "The war chief favors him. Must be why he advances so quickly."

  Varn's voice rose above these murmurs, deliberately pitched to carry across the arena.

  "Monster pup hiding behind tricks," he declared, eyes fixed on Sarkan. "Show us your true face. Fight like an orc, not some... thing."

  The challenge hung in the air, heavy with implication. The crowd shifted, their attention pivoting between Varn's towering frame and Sarkan's composed stance.

  Sarkan turned toward Varn, the movement deliberate and unhurried. Their eyes locked—one pair burning with resentment, the other cool and unreadable. The expected retort never came. Sarkan offered no words, no gestures of defiance. Only a look—cold, unshaken, measuring.

  The silence stretched longer than comfort allowed.

  Gorvak cleared his throat. "Final match. Sarkan against Horgath."

  As his next opponent stepped into the ring, Sarkan's thoughts remained fixed on Varn's words. Not in anger, but in calm acknowledgment.

  (“I don't need their roar, he thought as he positioned himself. I need their silence. Their fear will come later.”)

  The half-frozen river cut through the winter landscape like a vein of liquid silver, its surface alternating between sheets of translucent ice and ribbons of dark, rushing water. Here, beyond the watchful eyes of the tribe, Sarkan found the solitude he craved.

  Snow hushed the world around him, dampening all sound save the gentle murmur of water against stone. He sat cross-legged on a flat boulder, meticulously honing the edge of his bone blade with practiced strokes. The rhythmic scraping filled the silence, a meditation that allowed his mind to drift yet remain focused.

  The bruises from the morning's matches had already begun to fade—another peculiarity that set him apart. While others wore their combat wounds like badges of honor for days, Sarkan's body healed with disconcerting speed.

  He tested the blade's edge with his thumb, feeling its bite without drawing blood. Perfect. Like everything he crafted.

  Footsteps crunched through the snow behind him—deliberate, not attempting stealth. Sarkan didn't turn or pause in his work.

  "I know you're there," he said, voice carrying clearly over the river's whisper.

  A wiry boy stepped into view, perhaps two years younger than Sarkan but bearing the weathered look of one who had already faced hardship. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, pulling his mouth into a slight permanent grimace. Despite his small stature, his eyes burned with intelligence and determination. He carried a wooden sparring stick, gripping it with the confidence of someone who had learned to defend himself by necessity rather than choice.

  "I want to test you," the boy declared without preamble.

  Sarkan looked up without blinking, his silver eyes reflecting the pale winter light. "Why?"

  "Because I want to learn what makes you different." The boy shifted his stance, adjusting his grip on the sparring stick. "They talk about you. All of them. They say you're not natural."

  "And you believe them?"

  "I believe what I see," the boy replied. "And I want to see more."

  Without warning, he lunged, the sparring stick sweeping toward Sarkan's head in a surprisingly swift arc.

  The stick never reached its mark.

  Sarkan moved like water around stone, flowing rather than dodging. One moment he was seated, the next he stood beside the boy, the sparring stick now in his hand, its tip pressed lightly against the boy's throat.

  The entire exchange had taken less than a heartbeat.

  The boy's eyes widened, not with fear but with wonder. He stumbled back, then sat abruptly in the snow, breathless not from exertion but from astonishment.

  "How did you—" he began, then shook his head. "You're not like the others."

  "No," Sarkan agreed, tossing the sparring stick back to the boy, who caught it reflexively. "I'm not."

  Instead of retreating or showing fear, the boy's face broke into a lopsided grin, the scar tissue pulling it into something almost feral.

  "Train me," he said—not a request but not quite a demand either.

  Sarkan studied him with new interest. Most youths in the tribe avoided him, sensing the difference that set him apart and fearing it by instinct. This one sought it out.

  "Why would I do that?"

  "Because no one else will train me properly," the boy answered without hesitation. "I'm too small for the warriors to take seriously, and too fierce for the craftsmen to accept. But you—" He gesticulated with the sparring stick. "You're different too. You don't fight like they teach us."

  Sarkan considered the boy before him. There was truth in his words. The tribal warriors valued bulk and raw strength above all. This boy would never excel by those metrics, just as Sarkan never had.

  "What's your name?" Sarkan asked.

  "Rukk. Son of Marek, who died in the southern raid last season."

  That explained much. An orphan in the Tharnak tribe walked a precarious path, dependent on the generosity of others until they could prove their worth.

  After a long pause, Sarkan gave a single nod. "If you can keep up."

  Rukk's face lit up with fierce joy. "I can keep up," he promised, scrambling to his feet. "You'll see."

  "We begin now," Sarkan said, settling back into his cross-legged position on the boulder. "Sit. Be still. Watch the river."

  Confusion flickered across Rukk's features. "Watch the river? That's not training."

  "It is," Sarkan countered. "Before you can move like water, you must understand water. Sit. Be still."

  To his credit, Rukk complied, though his body practically vibrated with contained energy. He mirrored Sarkan's posture, focusing his gaze on the flowing water.

  "What am I looking for?" he asked after several minutes of silence.

  "Nothing," Sarkan replied. "And everything. The river doesn't try to flow. It simply does. That is the first lesson."

  As the pale winter sun arced across the sky, the two sat in companionable silence. Thus began the bond with Rukk—Sarkan's first ally not by blood, but by choice.

  Three days later, as dusk painted the sky in hues of deep purple and crimson, the fire-ring at the center of the tribal encampment blazed high. Sparks spiraled upward to join the emerging stars, and the faces of gathered tribe members glowed orange in the dancing light.

  This was no ordinary gathering. The tension in the air hung thick as smoke—a reckoning long in coming.

  Varn stepped into the circle, his massive frame silhouetted against the flames. He wore only simple fighting leathers despite the winter chill, his muscled torso bare save for ritual markings painted in ash and ochre across his chest and arms. The firelight caught the edges of his tusks as he smiled, a predatory expression devoid of warmth.

  "I challenge Sarkan, son of Sha'vara," he called out, voice carrying across the hushed crowd. "For the right of ranking and respect."

  A formal challenge—no refusal permitted, no retreat allowed without permanent disgrace. The tribe stirred, murmurs rippling outward from the fire-ring. All eyes turned toward Sarkan, who stood at the edge of the gathering, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.

  Gorvak, standing among the senior warriors, said nothing. His weathered face remained impassive, though his eyes tracked Sarkan's every movement. The elders watched with calculating gazes, assessing, measuring what would unfold.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Rukk appeared at Sarkan's side, his voice low and urgent. "He's been preparing for this. I've seen him training at night, focusing on countering your techniques."

  "Good," Sarkan replied simply. "Then he will have learned something valuable."

  Without further comment, he stepped forward, entering the fire-lit circle with measured strides. Unlike Varn, he wore no ritual markings, no displays of tribal tradition. His simplicity stood in stark contrast to Varn's performative dominance.

  Elder Krogar's voice rose above the crowd. "The challenge is given and accepted. Until blood flows freely or surrender is offered, let no one interfere. The ancestors watch, and favor the worthy."

  The traditional words spoken, the space within the fire-ring became sacred ground—a place where tribal law was suspended and only strength and skill determined the outcome.

  Varn wasted no time. With a guttural roar that startled nearby ravens into flight, he charged, covering the distance between them with surprising speed for his size. His first strike came like a battering ram—a massive fist aimed directly at Sarkan's head.

  Sarkan slipped the blow, but only barely. The force of Varn's passing momentum created a breeze that ruffled Sarkan's hair. He pivoted, struck twice in rapid succession at Varn's exposed ribs, then retreated beyond reach.

  Varn grinned, seemingly unaffected by the strikes. "Is that all, witch-son? I barely felt it."

  He pressed forward again, more measured this time, cutting off Sarkan's angles of retreat. His next blows came in a coordinated sequence—the product of years of training and natural aptitude. One connected solidly with Sarkan's shoulder, spinning him half around. Another caught him across the jaw, splitting his lip and spraying droplets of blood into the firelight.

  The tribe roared its approval, stomping feet and pounding fists against thighs in rhythmic appreciation of violence well delivered.

  Varn was stronger. Older. Heavy-handed. He came like a falling boulder—blunt, fast, terrifying. His blows landed with devastating impact. Sarkan's lip split wider. Blood trickled from his nose. His knees buckled under a particularly vicious strike to his thigh.

  "Yield," Varn growled, circling like a predator around wounded prey. "Yield and acknowledge your place beneath me."

  The crowd shouted for blood, for finality, for the natural order of their world to reassert itself through Varn's dominance.

  Then came silence.

  It descended so suddenly, so completely, that it seemed as if the very night had drawn breath and held it. Varn faltered mid-step, something in Sarkan's posture triggering an instinctive wariness.

  Sarkan stood straighter, despite the blood running down his chin, despite the bruises blooming across his visible skin. Something shifted in his eyes—the silver seeming to catch and hold the firelight in ways that defied natural explanation.

  Within him, the Seed whispered—not in words, but in weight and presence. A dark knowledge unfurling, reaching tendrils through his consciousness.

  Varn sensed the change, if not its nature. His eyes narrowed, his guard raised instinctively higher.

  "What trick is this?" he demanded, voice betraying the first hint of uncertainty.

  Sarkan didn't answer—at least not with words. He moved.

  The change in his fighting style was subtle but profound. Where before he had fought reactively, now he flowed with purpose. He didn't evade Varn's next strike; he redirected it, adding his own force to Varn's momentum, sending the larger orc stumbling off-balance.

  He didn't fight back. He unraveled Varn.

  Three strikes—efficient, surgical, perfect.

  The first targeted the nerve cluster beneath Varn's extended arm, sending numbing pain radiating through the limb. The second swept Varn's legs from beneath him, a precise application of leverage rather than strength. The third, delivered as Varn struggled to regain his footing, struck the juncture of neck and shoulder with such precision that Varn's right side was temporarily paralyzed.

  Varn collapsed, his massive frame hitting the packed earth with an impact that sent dust billowing into the firelight. He tried to rise, managing only to push himself half-upright before his unresponsive limbs betrayed him.

  The silence deepened. Even the fire seemed to burn more quietly, as if in deference to what they had just witnessed.

  Sarkan stood over his fallen opponent, blood still dripping from his split lip, chest rising and falling with controlled breath. He made no move to finish Varn, to force a submission or inflict further damage. Instead, he turned—not to leave the circle, but to speak.

  His voice carried clearly despite its measured tone, reaching even those at the edges of the gathering.

  "I am not like you," he said, addressing not just Varn but the entire tribe. "I never have been. I never will be." His gaze swept across the assembled faces, lingering briefly on Gorvak, on Rukk, on Elder Krogar. "But I am of this tribe. My blood, my strength, my victories—all belong to the Tharnak ."

  He looked down at Varn, who glared back with mingled rage and confusion.

  "I will show you the strength of kings," Sarkan continued, "not beasts. There is power in precision. There is victory in understanding. The strongest wolf is not always the one with the loudest howl or the sharpest teeth, but the one who knows exactly where to bite."

  The silence that followed Sarkan's words lingered too long—stretching until it became uncomfortable, dangerous. The firelight cast long shadows across the gathered tribe, highlighting expressions that ranged from awe to fear to calculation.

  Varn struggled to his feet, dignity warring with pain across his features. He stood unsteadily, right arm still hanging limp at his side, eyes burning with humiliation and something deeper—a fundamental shaking of his worldview.

  Elder Krogar stepped forward into the fire-ring, his massive frame seeming to absorb the light rather than reflect it. His face, weathered by decades of harsh winters and harsher battles, revealed nothing of his thoughts.

  "This must be weighed—" he began, voice resonant with authority.

  "It has been weighed," interrupted a new voice, cutting through the night like a blade through hide.

  Gorvak moved into the circle, his scarred face illuminated by the flames. His mass shadowing Krogar, his presence commanded attention—the war chief's authority radiating from him like heat from the fire.

  "He is my son," Gorvak declared, the words landing with the weight of mountains. Not by blood, but by choice—a claim made years ago when he had taken the fatherless boy under his protection. "He has proven his right by our oldest laws. Those who oppose him, oppose me."

  The statement hung in the air—simple in its delivery but profound in its implications. Gorvak rarely invoked his authority so directly. That he did so now spoke volumes about the significance he placed on this moment.

  None replied. Not Varn, still struggling to regain full control of his limbs. Not Krogar, whose eyes narrowed fractionally at the challenge to his authority, but who recognized the dangerous ground. Not even Sha'vara, who watched from the shadows beyond the firelight, her silver eyes reflecting the flames like twin moons.

  Sarkan stood in the center of it all, blood drying on his skin, gaze distant as though seeing beyond the immediate conflict to something further on the horizon. The firelight played across his features, casting them in relief that accentuated their alien angles—too fine for pure orcish blood, too fierce for anything weaker.

  (“They will follow,”) he thought, watching the subtle shifts in posture as the tribe processed what they had witnessed. (“Not because they must, but because they wish to become more. Every creature seeks evolution, whether they know it or not.”)

  Rukk pushed through to the front of the crowd, his scarred face split with a fierce grin of vindication. His eyes met Sarkan's across the fire-ring, and he offered a slight nod—acknowledgment and allegiance in one small gesture.

  One by one, the tribe dispersed, moving away in small groups that buzzed with low conversation. The night's events would be dissected around smaller fires, analyzed in quiet corners, remembered as a turning point though few could articulate exactly why.

  Varn was the last to leave the circle, pride forcing him to walk without assistance despite the lingering effects of Sarkan's strikes. As he passed, he paused, not looking directly at his former rival.

  "This isn't finished," he muttered, voice pitched for Sarkan's ears alone.

  "No," Sarkan agreed quietly. "It's only beginning."

  The Hunt came with the first red moon of the season—a time of blood and primal ritual older than tribal memory. The moon hung low and swollen in the night sky, casting a crimson glow across the endless fields of snow that surrounded the tribal lands.

  No audience followed them into the wilderness—only cold wind and hungry wolves witnessed the Team of hunters as they ventured into the deepest part of the forest. Sarkan moved like a shadow between towering pines, his footfalls so light they barely disturbed the snow's crust. Ahead of him, Gorvak led with the steady confidence of one who had walked these paths countless times. Behind, Varn followed with ill-concealed resentment, his breath forming clouds that lingered in the frigid air.

  Their breath clouds slowly faded away. They moved through snow-choked pines in silence, communication reduced to hand signals and knowing glances. Fresh elk tracks cut across a clearing—deep impressions that spoke of size and weight. A worthy prize for the red moon hunt.

  The tracks led deep into a thicket of frost-rimed bushes and densely packed trees, a natural fortress that would give the prey advantage over predator.

  "Hold formation," Gorvak warned, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying clearly in the winter stillness. "We circle, close the distance, then drive it toward the ravine to the east."

  Sarkan nodded his understanding, already moving to take his position on the right flank. The strategy was sound—practiced and refined over generations of hunts in these northern forests.

  But Varn had other ideas.

  Perhaps driven by lingering shame from his defeat three moons prior, perhaps simply impatient, Varn disobeyed. Instead of circling wide to the left as instructed, he pushed directly into the thicket, moving with surprising stealth for one of his size.

  The result was immediate and predictable.

  Branches snapped. Snow cascaded from disturbed bushes. And within the thicket, something large shifted—startled into desperate motion.

  The elk bolted—a magnificent beast with antlers that spread like winter-bare branches against the night sky. But instead of fleeing east toward the ravine as they had planned, it charged directly west.

  Straight at Sarkan.

  Time slowed.

  Breath narrowed to a single point of focus.

  The world around him stilled, as though reality itself had paused to witness what would unfold.

  Sarkan felt the same strange clarity that had descended during his fight with Varn—but stronger now, more defined. The elk's movements seemed almost languid to his heightened perception, each bound through the deep snow unfolding with crystal clarity. He could see the steam from its nostrils, count the points on its antlers, observe the ripple of powerful muscles beneath its winter coat.

  He lifted his hunting spear, the weight familiar yet somehow different in his grip. The balance shifted as he drew back his arm, muscles coiling with potential energy.

  He threw.

  The spear flew true—impossibly, perfectly true. It streaked through the space between hunter and prey, its path so precise it seemed guided by forces beyond mere skill or luck.

  One strike.

  The spear found its mark just behind the elk's shoulder, driving deep into the vital organs beneath. A perfect kill—clean, efficient, merciful in its swiftness.

  The great beast took three more bounding steps before its legs failed, tumbling into the snow in a spray of crimson that steamed in the cold air. Its final breath escaped in a plume of vapor that dissipated into the night, carrying its spirit back to the endless hunt of ancestral grounds.

  Silence descended once more upon the forest.

  Sarkan approached the fallen elk with reverence, kneeling beside it as its eyes glazed over with the film of death. He placed one hand on its flank, feeling the last warmth fading from its body.

  "I take your strength," he murmured, the traditional hunter's blessing flowing from memory. "I honor your sacrifice. May your spirit run forever in the eternal forest."

  Snow crunched behind him as Gorvak approached, his expression a mixture of pride and something deeper—a questioning concern that had grown more pronounced in recent months. He examined the spear's entry point, noting the precision, the impossible accuracy of the throw.

  "A clean death," he acknowledged. "The tribe will feast well."

  Before Sarkan could respond, Varn's heavy footsteps announced his arrival. The larger orc surveyed the scene, his jaw tight with unspoken emotion.

  "You stole the kill," he accused, though the words lacked their usual heat. Something had shifted in his demeanor since their confrontation—a wariness that tempered his aggression.

  Sarkan rose to his feet, meeting Varn's gaze steadily.

  "The elk chose its path," he replied simply. "I ended its journey."

  Gorvak knelt, examining the wound more closely in the crimson moonlight. His fingers traced the entry point, measuring its depth, assessing the skill behind the throw. Finally, he stood, snow clinging to his furs as he straightened.

  "The kill is his," he declared, his tone brooking no argument. "By right of the spear and the blood."

  Varn didn't challenge the pronouncement, though his eyes never left Sarkan's face. Something unspoken passed between them in that moment—a recognition, perhaps, or a reckoning.

  They worked together to field dress the elk, preparing it for transport back to the tribal encampment. The familiar tasks—draining blood, removing organs, securing the carcass to carrying poles—created a temporary truce, their shared purpose overriding personal animosity.

  That night, around the central fire of the tribal encampment, the successful hunters were honored according to tradition. Meat roasted on spits, its rich aroma filling the night air. Songs were sung, tales were told, and ritual cups of fermented berry wine passed from hand to hand.

  Yet beneath the celebration ran an undercurrent of unease—slight but perceptible to those sensitive to the tribe's moods. Eyes lingered on Sarkan longer than necessary. Conversations paused when he passed, resuming in hushed tones once he moved beyond earshot.

  As the night deepened and the fire burned lower, most of the tribe retreated to their dwellings, leaving only a few figures gathered around the glowing embers. Gorvak sat beside Sarkan, both staring into the dying flames in companionable silence.

  Finally, the war chief spoke, his voice pitched low for Sarkan's ears alone.

  "That throw..." he began, choosing his words with care. "It was not natural. It was as if he was possessed by hunting spirits themselves"

  Sarkan continued gazing into the fire, watching patterns form and dissolve in the shifting coals. He said nothing, but his silence was acknowledgment enough.

  "I have seen master hunters miss at half that distance," Gorvak continued. "In conditions twice as favourable. Yet you struck perfectly—as though the spear itself knew where you wished it to go."

  He turned slightly, studying Sarkan's profile illuminated by the ember-glow. "As your war chief, I celebrate such skill. As the man who has raised you since childhood... I worry what price such gifts might demand."

  Sarkan finally looked up, meeting Gorvak's concerned gaze. "You fear what I'm becoming."

  It wasn't a question.

  Gorvak didn't deny it. "I fear what I don't understand. And increasingly, you fall into that category." He placed a weathered hand on Sarkan's shoulder—a rare gesture of affection. "Your mother sees further than most. Perhaps it's time you spoke with her about these... changes."

  Across the dying fire, a shadow moved—Varn, rising from his place among the few remaining tribespeople. As he stood, his eyes met Sarkan's over the glowing coals. In that unguarded moment, something raw and honest passed between them.

  It was no longer hatred that Varn directed at him—though resentment still simmered beneath the surface. It was fear. Pure, primal, instinctive fear.

  The kind of fear prey feels when it recognizes a superior predator.

  And somewhere deep within, in the place where the Seed had taken root and now flourished, Sarkan welcomed it. Not out of cruelty or hunger for dominance, but from recognition of an essential truth: fear was the beginning of respect and respect the foundation of change.

  They will fear before they follow, he thought, holding Varn's gaze until the larger orc looked away. And they will follow before they understand.

  As the last embers died and darkness reclaimed the camp, Sarkan remained by the fire pit, alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that he stood on the threshold of something vast and irrevocable. The Path had opened before him, revealed in fragments and whispers, in dreams and moments of impossible clarity.

  He had only to walk it.

  The Seed stirred within him, pulsing with ancient purpose. And somewhere beyond the firelight, beyond the sleeping camp, beyond the snow-covered forests, the world waited—unaware that change approached on quiet feet.

  The Seed awakened. It recognized. It remembered.