Chapter 20: The Gift and the Knife
The Graxian delegation did not linger. With a final, grinding laugh that was more threat than mirth, Grok turned his massive frame and led his warriors back into the jungle, leaving silence and the five broken figures in his wake.
For a long moment, no one in Vance Haven moved. The only sounds were the ragged breathing of the freed prisoners and the low, dangerous hum of Thora's fury. Alistair watched the tree line, ensuring the Graxians were truly gone, before turning his attention to the scene before him.
The five Blue-Skins—three women and two men—were skeletal, their skin stretched tight over bone, marred by old scars and fresh, ugly bruises. Their eyes, wide and sunken, held a hollow terror that spoke of seasons of brutal servitude. They flinched as Thora took a step toward them, a collective shudder running through them.
"Easy," Alistair said, his voice low and calm, projecting a steadiness he didn't fully feel. He moved slowly, placing himself between Thora's raw anger and the prisoners' terror. He knelt, making himself small, non-threatening.
He didn't speak. Instead, he placed his palm flat on the earth. He pushed a thread of power, not with the force he'd used to slay the serpent or shatter the ground, but with the delicate precision he'd used to grow the flower. He focused on the Edict of Sanctuary, amplifying its effect, weaving a pocket of profound peace directly around the traumatized group.
A visible wave of relief washed over them. The tension in their shoulders slackened. One of the women, her hair matted and streaked with premature grey, let out a shuddering sigh and sank to her knees, tears cutting clean paths through the grime on her cheeks.
"Thora," Alistair said, not taking his eyes off the woman. "Get them water. And the softest meat we have. Slowly."
Thora's jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack, but she gave a sharp, jerky nod and barked orders. Her people moved with a hushed, furious efficiency, their compassion for their lost kin warring with their rage at the Graxians.
As the five were gently led toward the hut, leaning on their rescuers, Thora turned on Alistair, her voice a venomous whisper. "You see what he has done? This is no gift. This is a boast. He shows us he can break our people, and then he pretends to be generous by returning the pieces." She spat on the ground where Grok had stood. "He gives us his shame to wash and calls it alliance."
"I see it," Alistair replied, his own voice cold. The initial shock was hardening into a sharp, strategic understanding. "He is testing me. Testing us. He wants to see if we are strong enough to be useful, or weak enough to be controlled."
He looked toward the hut, where the sounds of soft weeping could be heard. "He has given us a knife, Thora. The question is, will we cut ourselves on it, or will we learn its balance and weight?"
He moved to the central fire pit, the heart of the settlement. The tribe gathered around him, their faces a mosaic of confusion, anger, and fear. The joy of their safe return had been utterly poisoned.
"Listen to me," Alistair began, his voice carrying, amplified by the stone foundation beneath him. "Grok thinks he has given us a burden. He has. But he has also given us a weapon."
He pointed to the hut. "In there is not just our pain. It is intelligence. They have lived in the Stonetusk camp. They know its layout. They know its routines. They know Grok's temper, his strengths, his weaknesses. They have seen the Graxians when they are not posturing for a fight."
A new light kindled in the eyes of the hunters. The angle of the problem shifted.
"Our alliance with the Stonetusk Clan stands," Alistair declared. "We will hunt the shared lands. We will share the river. We will smile and nod and take their offers of trade. We will be the picture of grateful partners."
He let the words hang in the sanctified air, the silence heavy with intent.
"But we are not fools. We will grow strong. We will build higher, dig deeper, and train harder. And we will listen. We will learn everything our new members can teach us. Grok has shown us his teeth, thinking it would make us cower."
Alistair allowed a cold, sharp smile to touch his lips. It was not an expression of joy, but of resolve.
"It has only shown us exactly where we need to strike, if the day ever comes that he forces our hand."
He looked at Thora, at Kael, at Roric, at every face in the crowd. "We will heal our people. We will strengthen our home. And we will remember this day. Not as a day of shame, but as the day we saw the true face of our ally. Forewarned is forearmed."
The fear in the clearing began to transmute into something else: a grim, united purpose. The gift had been a knife, yes. But Alistair had just told them how to grasp the hilt.
The peace had been secured. Now, the silent war had begun. And Alistair, the Earth-Shaker, the Admin, the Steward, would ensure his people were ready for it. The survival of Vance Haven no longer depended on keeping monsters out. It depended on understanding the monster they had let inside the gate.