Chapter 14
The hut felt too small, the air too thick with the scent of fear and blood. Alistair needed space to think, to breathe. He left the prisoners under Thora's watchful guard and walked to the center of the settlement, standing on the stone foundation. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the steadying hum of the Core Link, the gentle peace of the Edict.
But all he could feel was the weight of Borak's promise. *"Clan. Many. Strong. Will return."*
It was a simple equation. He had two assets: the prisoners. And he faced a looming liability: the Stonetusk Clan.
The gamer in him, the min-maxer, laid out the cold, logical options.
**Option 1: Execute the Prisoners.**
- *Pros:* Removes two immediate enemies. Sends a message of strength and ruthlessness. Eliminates any risk of escape or internal disruption.
- *Cons:* Guarantees the eternal hatred of the Stonetusk Clan. Closes any possible path to negotiation. Makes him a killer in cold blood.
**Option 2: Keep Them Indefinitely.**
- *Pros:* Upholds a moral code. Prisoners could be used for labor or information.
- *Cons:* A constant drain on resources (food, water, security). A ticking time bomb inside his walls. A visible symbol of the conflict that could demoralize his own people.
**Option 3: Release Them.**
- *Pros:* A potential gesture of goodwill. Could open channels for communication, or at least confuse the enemy. Removes the internal security risk.
- *Cons:* An immense strategic risk. Returns two warriors to the enemy, who will report everything they've seen—the walls, the watchtower, the "Earth-Shaker." Shows potential weakness.
He ran the calculations again and again. Each option had a cost that couldn't be quantified in credits or power points. It was a cost paid in the soul of his fledgling nation, and in his own.
He thought of the sinkhole, of the ease with which he had buried the Graxians. That power was seductive. It was clean, in its own horrific way. But the memory of filling it in, of hiding the evidence, felt like a stain.
He was not just building structures; he was building a culture. What would he be founding it on? Ruthless pragmatism? Or something more?
A new idea, a fourth option, began to form. It was a gamble, a mix of strategy and something that felt suspiciously like mercy.
He walked back into the hut. Borak and Krog looked up, their expressions wary. Alistair ignored the snarling Krog and focused on the older, scarred warrior.
"Borak," he said, the translated name feeling more solid now.
He knelt, placing his hands on the earth floor between them. He focused, not on destruction, but on creation. He spent a single point of Power.
A small, intricate model of Vance Haven sprouted from the dirt. The foundation, the hut, the palisade wall, the watchtower—all rendered in perfect, miniature detail. The Blue-Skin tribespeople were represented by tiny figures of blue moss. He then created two figures of dark mud to represent Borak and Krog, bound inside the walls.
Borak's eyes widened, his calculating gaze fixed on the tiny, miraculous diorama. He understood the representation immediately.
Alistair then pointed a finger at the two mud figures. He made a sweeping gesture, pushing them out through the model's gate and away from the settlement. He then looked Borak directly in the eye.
"I will let you go," Alistair said, the system conveying the core concepts of release and freedom.
A flicker of shock, quickly suppressed, crossed Borak's face. Krog fell silent, confused.
"But," Alistair continued, his voice low and deliberate. He pointed at the model of the settlement, then at Borak, and then made a slashing motion across his own throat. The meaning was unmistakable. *"Do not return as an enemy."*
He then pointed from Borak to the model, and made a gesture of opening hands, of offering. *"Or return... differently."*
He was offering them a choice. A path that wasn't war. He was betting that Borak's intelligence would outweigh his aggression, that the display of power mixed with mercy would create more confusion and hesitation than simple brutality ever could.
It was a risk. A huge one.
Borak stared at the model for a long, long time. He looked at the detailed walls, the watchtower, the tiny blue figures. He looked at the two mud figures of himself, cast out. He then lifted his gaze to Alistair, and gave a single, slow, deliberate nod.
It was not a nod of agreement to terms. It was a nod of understanding. He understood the offer. He understood the power behind it. And he understood that the Earth-Shaker was not like any chieftain he had ever known.
Alistair stood. "Cut them loose," he said to Thora.
Her eyes widened in alarm, but after a moment's hesitation, she used her bone knife to sever the vines binding the Graxians.
Borak rose stiffly, helping the wounded Krog to his feet. They didn't look at the Blue-Skins. They didn't look at the hut. Their eyes were on Alistair, and on the open gateway beyond.
Without a word, they limped out of the hut, through the settlement, and out the gate, disappearing into the shadows of the jungle.
Alistair watched them go, his heart thudding against his ribs. He had just released two vipers back into the grass. He had either made the smartest move of his life, or the most catastrophic.
He had moved beyond the simple calculus of survival. He was now playing a much more dangerous game: the game of politics. And the first move was complete. The message was sent. The ball was now in the Stonetusk Clan's court.