Chapter 12: The Weight of the Crown
The silence after the Graxians' retreat was heavier than any that had come before. It was not the peaceful quiet of the sanctuary, but a stunned, brittle stillness. The groans from the sinkhole were a stark counterpoint to the gentle hum of the Edict.
Alistair descended from the watchtower, his legs feeling strangely numb. The cold, tactical clarity was fading, leaving a hollow sensation in its wake. He had done what was necessary. He had protected his people. The gamer part of his brain assured him of this—it was an optimal solution, minimal risk, maximum payoff.
But the part of him that could hear the pained sounds from the earth knew that "optimal" was a cold comfort.
Thora and the other hunters stood near the pit, their spears still pointed downwards. They weren't celebrating. They watched the trapped Graxians with a grim, practical understanding. This was the nature of survival. But when Thora looked at Alistair as he approached, her gaze was different. There was no judgment, but there was a new, sobering depth to her respect. She had seen the earth itself obey his will to destroy. It was a power far more terrifying than summoning a wall.
He walked to the edge of the hole and looked down.
The fanged leader was dead, his neck broken from the fall. Two others lay motionless. But two were still alive, pinned by rubble or with broken limbs, looking up with a mixture of terror, pain, and raw hatred.
[SCAN: GRAXIAN WARRIORS (2).]
STATUS: CRITICALLY INJURED. NON-COMBATANT.
OPTIONS: HARVEST. TERMINATE. CAPTURE.
The System presented its cold, logical choices. Harvesting them was a monstrous thought he immediately dismissed. Termination was the "clean" option, the final step of his tactical move. But the word itself felt alien and vile.
Capture.
He made his decision. He was a steward, not a butcher. And prisoners could be more valuable than corpses. They could provide information. They could be bargaining chips. Or they could simply be a chance to prove that his rule was not solely built on annihilation.
He turned to Thora. "We take them," he said, his voice rough. He pointed at the two survivors, then at the hut. "Prisoners."
Understanding dawned on her face, followed by a flicker of surprise. She gave a sharp order. Roric and another hunter scrambled down into the pit with ropes, carefully, warily extracting the two injured Graxians. They did not handle them gently, but they did not deliver killing blows either. It was a practical, grim mercy.
As the Graxians were hauled out, bleeding and helpless, Alistair faced the second problem: the pit itself. It was a scar on his land, a monument to a violence that contradicted the sanctuary he was trying to build. He could leave it as a grisly warning, but the groans of the dying and the sight of the dead would poison the air.
He placed his hands on the ground beside the pit. He focused on the Terrain Manipulation power, but this time, the intent was different. Not to destroy, but to restore. To heal.
He selected the command: **FILL.**
The Power cost was minimal, only 5 points. The earth shifted, the sides of the pit sliding inward, gently covering the three dead Graxians in a deep, unmarked grave. In moments, the ground was level again, covered only with a fresh layer of soil and the resilient blue moss. The groans stopped. The clearing was whole again.
It was the most unsettling thing he had done all day.
He had erased the evidence. The brutality was now hidden beneath a peaceful facade. The weight of that act settled on his shoulders, heavier than any stone.
He looked at his people. They were watching him, their expressions a complex mix of relief, awe, and a trace of fear. He had saved them, but he had also shown them a power that could erase their enemies from existence without a trace. The line between a protector and a tyrant felt dangerously thin.
The two Graxian prisoners were dragged into the hut, their fate uncertain. The immediate threat was over. Vance Haven was secure.
But as Alistair stood on the newly-leveled ground, he felt the cost of that security. He had defended his home with ruthless efficiency, and in doing so, he had lost a small, vital piece of his own humanity. The crown of leadership, he was learning, was not made of gold, but of iron and difficult choices. And it was beginning to feel very, very heavy.