The village was simmering with a furious quiet; the people were gathered in a wide square at the village center, their tongues tossing suspicions and whispers like a fire waiting for a handful of fuel to be thrown onto it. In the middle of the square stood Torg, steadfast as a rock upon which a long-defeated past had been worn down to build a new resolve. Around him stood the other leaders, their faces marked with anxiety, anger, and hesitation; some clenched the shafts of their spears with trembling hands, while others patted their neighbor's hand as if seeking reassurance for themselves before the decisive word was spoken. The air was heavy with the smell of burning wood from nearby hearths and the clatter of pots from the houses of the women who dared to stand near the edges of the square, listening to the men's roars and guessing the consequences of what was to come.
Hoista stepped forward from the crowd, holding an ancient dagger in his hand, an old blade upon which specks of soil from the earth glinted; it showed signs of digging and rust that concealed beneath them a harsher history. His voice trembled as he announced his discovery: "We found it while searching for Normo's body—buried outside the village." A murmur rose here and there, then voices quickly escalated when it became clear the dagger bore a familiar emblem.
Torg was not a man easily agitated; but his eyes glinted for a moment as he read the insignia engraved on the dagger's hilt—a circle like a sun, shattered as if the sun itself had been broken into fragments. Sirk Hanoy was quicker than the others to recognize it: "Isn't this the emblem of the blacksmith of Diranis village?" he said sharply, his tone betraying his violence.
Tol Ardon, known for his strong presence and rough voice, rose to ask with equal sharpness: "How do you explain this, Master Torg? A dagger from your village—buried at our borders. Do you have an explanation?" The words were thrusts stored in the crowd's chest; eyes met them and held them as if hinting at a truth wanting to break free.
Torg remained silent for a moment, then said with feigned coldness: "What do you mean, Tol Ardon?" That answer was an attempt to absorb the shock, but the shattered crystal of the emblem had other voices; whispers of accusation began to turn towards his chest. Aranith, who was standing beside him, her features trembling with a mix of anger and fear, intervened: "I can't believe you suspect Torg of killing his own brother." Her words were a cry stemming from personal trust, but the ceiling above them seemed to tilt on another scale; the crowd turned to feel out the threads.
Hoista smiled a cold smile, full of cunning and hidden intent: "And what is your explanation? You arrived shortly after Normo's death." At the word "shortly," the souls in the square shrank, as if time itself had turned back to replay the same scene: Normo's death, the grief, the anger, and the search for a justification to dress the truth in new clothes.
Torg bristled, his voice coming out strong: "Chief Normo—you scum! Who do you think I am to do such a thing?" His words were sharp and indignant, like someone refusing to be cast as the killer in a play for which he doesn't want an ending written. But he offered no other explanation; he had reasons he did not wish to disclose now, perhaps because they were deeper than a mere local dispute.
Hoista did not stop, and his words seemed to aim arrows at the heart of intent: "I heard your conversation with Aranith; you want a war against the North and you need armies, you want to become king of the separate tribes—isn't that right, Torg?" The final voice was like the dagger itself, plunging into everyone's chest and creating an uproar.
Sirk Hanoy posed the question with direct firmness: "Is this true, Torg?" The crowd swayed like a boat in the storms of the question; each one of them looked for a decisive answer that would place them either on the path of war or the path of peace. Torg answered coldly: "Yes. I came to reunite the tribes and to fight the North." That declaration was a superficial admission that redrew the boundaries between national ambition and personal desire. Then, in a quieter tone, the primordial question was asked: "And who killed your brother?" Torg answered in a voice barely audible: "I don't know."
The atmosphere grew tense, and the faces of the crowd shifted between anxiety, bewilderment, and anger. Sirk Hanoy, who never missed a chance to exert his influence, immediately ordered the arrest of Torg and Aranith Velos. Aranith's protesting cry rose: "What is this, Sirk? I am one of the leaders; I order you to release us!" But the voice was not enough; the hired guards—men with no feelings for right or wrong—grabbed them firmly and threw them into a dark cell beneath the compound's floor. The echo of the prison door slamming shut was a scene sharp enough to whet the winds of revenge among the ranks of their master's enemies.
Sirk did not stop there: he turned to the crowd and said in a sharp voice: "It seems everyone has their own interests that spoil matters; all the leaders—except me—only want to fill their bellies." Those were biting words, but also an eloquent attempt to turn public anger into fuel for a personal speech justifying his actions. Then he gestured with a telling glance to Tol Ardon: "Even you, Ardon? Is this how you want things to go?"
At first, Tol Ardon didn't grasp the meaning of the gesture, but he soon noticed from a distance someone watching him with a covert look—Fereh. Understanding passed like a cloud over his face; he knew Fereh had informed on him. At that, Sirk ordered the guards to arrest Tol as well. But Tol did not surrender quietly; instead, he rushed towards the guards laughing hysterically, then threatened them in a loud voice: "You're too late, Sirk; a full army from the kingdom will arrive any moment to behead you." Those words, regardless of their truth, were like a torch held to a long fuse; the guards took him to prison as he laughed with a sound that pierced the silence of the place.
After a moment of silence, Sirk Hanoy stood at the forefront of the square as if he were the director of a play that had reached its climax, and shouted in a resounding voice: "In revenge for our chief—I declare war on Diranis village!" That sentence was like an axe falling on the fragile neck of the ladder of peace; in the air, cheering waves gathered, and some shouted with blind praise, while others gathered around the logic of fear that Sirk had planted. On the hidden side of the crowd, a spy from Diranis village—a silent man who had been sharpening his ear to the whispers—seized the opportunity and darted off, sprinting to inform his village of what had happened, not merely to be a witness, but to be a spark that might ignite a war for which questions would be of no avail.
Sirk was not satisfied with that; he continued with a fiery speech: "We will behead their chief before their eyes and show them they are no match for us!" The words poured fuel onto an old fire for some men who dreamed of wealth and power, so their souls were heated and cheers erupted. The masses began to stir, and enthusiastic voices increased until they approached a clamor that made the mind overlook any hesitation.
But within the folds of this fervor, the seeds of doubt began to bear fruit: some thought fighting would bring glory, while others saw it as the beginning of turning old influence into new domination. Some women joined the edge of the square, their eyes watching fate, their hearts knowing that war takes much from them: sons, husbands, and time that does not return. The children who gathered near the square's edges sensed the adults' scenes with an imitation that didn't understand their danger; young eyes learned that war is the theater of men.
In that moment, Torg and Aranith, behind the damp bars, sat facing each other. The silence between them was charged with the inexpressible; but between the words, there were common denominators: love for a shared past, gloom for the present, and a conviction of a dark probability. Aranith translated her whispers in a voice like a map of wounds: "They want to turn Normo's death into a sword that cuts off any other voice."