Chapter 19
The triumph of finding water for the Graxians was a cold stone in Alistair's gut by the time he and Thora returned to Vance Haven. The effort of guiding his power so far from the Core had left him feeling hollowed out, a puppet with cut strings. He barely acknowledged the relieved looks from his people as he passed through the gate and went straight to the hut, collapsing onto his bedroll into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke hours later to the smell of roasting meat and the low murmur of voices. The fatigue was gone, but a new tension had taken its place. The alliance was a thread, thin and fragile, stretched across a chasm of old hatred and new suspicion.
Stepping outside, he found the settlement buzzing, but the energy had changed. The frantic work of fortification had been replaced by a different kind of preparation. Thora was directing a group in clearing a larger area near the central fire, while Kael and the other wood-shapers were not making sharpened stakes, but smoothing planks for what looked like benches.
"They prepare for guests," Thora said, coming to his side. Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were shadowed with the same unease he felt. "The Graxians will come at the next sun-high. Borak sent a runner."
Alistair nodded. It was happening. The abstract concept of an alliance was about to become a tangible, and potentially dangerous, reality.
"He said they bring a gift," Thora added, her lips tightening. "A show of good faith."
The phrase sent a chill down Alistair's spine. In his old life, a corporate "gift" usually came with hidden clauses. Here, it could be anything.
The following day, the watchtower call came. "They are here!"
Alistair walked to the gate, Thora and his best hunters flanking him. He ordered the gate opened, and they stepped out to meet the Graxian delegation.
It was not just Borak and Grok. A dozen Graxian warriors stood behind them, their expressions a mix of curiosity and ingrained hostility. But it was what they led that stole the breath from Alistair's people.
Two massive, six-legged beasts, like shaggy, reptilian oxen, were tethered with thick ropes. They were laden with goods. But walking between them, their hands bound and heads bowed, were five figures.
They were Blue-Skins.
They were thin, their skin dull and covered in bruises, their clothes little more than rags. They flinched at the sunlight, their eyes wide with a hope so fragile it was painful to see.
"Our gift," Grok's voice boomed, a stark contrast to the silent horror of the moment. "We raided a small clan to the south many seasons ago. These are the survivors. We return them to their people."
The price of the alliance was now clear. It was not just water for peace. It was a deliberate, brutal act of political theater. Grok was demonstrating his power—the power to take and the power to give—while simultaneously binding Alistair to him with a debt. These were Alistair's people now. Their suffering was a chain.
Thora made a small, choked sound beside him. Her knuckles were white on her spear. The other Blue-Skins stared, a storm of emotions on their faces—joy at seeing lost kin, rage at their condition, and a dawning understanding of the complex monster they had just allied with.
Alistair forced his face to remain a mask of calm. He met Grok's challenging gaze.
"Your gift is... significant," Alistair said, the words feeling inadequate. "They will be cared for."
He gestured for his people to come forward and take the freed prisoners. As the emaciated Blue-Skins were gently led inside the walls, weeping and embracing their long-lost tribe members, Alistair looked back at Grok.
The Graxian leader gave a slow, satisfied smile. The message was received.
The alliance was sealed, not with a handshake, but with five broken lives. Alistair had gained more followers. He had also gained a stark reminder that his neighbor was not just a partner, but a predator. And he had just welcomed him inside his gates.