"It's so cold…" The villagers shivered as a wave of frost rolled from the opened chest. Pale mist spilled over the edges and crawled across the square. When it thinned, everyone could finally see what lay inside.
A gleaming set of bones, white as polished jade. The biting chill came from them.
"What is that?" voices whispered. None among them had seen anything so strange, but even the dullest could feel the power sleeping within it.
"These," Ren Flintclaw said, his voice rich with satisfaction, "are desolate bones. The light patterns you saw were seals—meant to contain the cold."
"Desolate bones?" The crowd murmured in awe. Most had never even heard the term.
But Zaric had. Lyra Terran had told him stories: in the wilderness beyond the walls, monstrous desolate beasts roamed—creatures powerful enough to flatten a small tribe with a sweep of their tails.
Terrifying, yes—but their bodies were treasure troves. Their flesh overflowed with essence, their blood and vein pulsed with energy, and their bones—their bones held the greatest secrets of all.
Desolate bones were the concentrated remains of that power. With the right methods, the bones could be refined into fragments of pure energy—essence stones no larger than a bean.
Even a small rib could change a warrior's fate.
"This," Ren continued, "is why our rations are fewer. Not all our goods went for food. We bartered weapons and armor for this single set of desolate bones. Even that wasn't enough—I had to offer up the cultivation methods I learned during my travels beyond the ridge to complete the trade."
Beside him, the yellow-robed elder—the Patriarch—spoke in a loud, rehearsed tone: "You all see it now! These bones are our tribe's hope!"
The words echoed hollowly over the square.
The crowd's faces twisted with disbelief. What good were bones to starving mouths?
They all understood, even if they didn't dare say it—the essence in those bones wouldn't belong to them.
Ren raised his hands, smiling faintly. "I know your thoughts. You fear hunger. You fear death. You wonder why we trade food for bones."
He stepped forward, voice cutting sharp and clear through the cold air.
"But tell me—do you truly want to live like this forever? Starving, trembling each night when the beasts cry outside our fences? Waiting to die nameless in the mud?"
The question cracked something inside the crowd. People clenched their fists, heads bowed in silent shame.
"I've endured enough!" someone shouted.
Ren's eyes glimmered. "Good! I, too, refuse to live like cattle. In three months, the Ironfang Dominion—one of the great kingdoms—will hold open trials for new warriors. Pass those tests, and one can earn a place among their ranks! It is glory beyond measure—and our chance!"
He spread his arms. The sunlight burned against his silver armor. "I will use these desolate bones to break through—to become a Vein Blood Warrior! Once I do, I will represent the Flintclaw clan in the trials. And when I earn my title, I'll return. I'll take all of you into the cities of the Dominion. Behind stone walls, no more hunger, no more fear!"
The words poured over the people like rain after drought. Three months. Just three months more, and paradise awaited.
Zaric frowned. So that's it.
Ren Flintclaw wasn't saving the tribe—he was using it. Trading their food, their sweat, even their lives for one chance at advancement.
"He wants to ascend on their backs," Zaric thought bitterly. "He's feeding on them."
Ren's voice grew thunderous, burning with ambition. "Endure a little longer, and I'll return your sacrifices a hundredfold! No—a thousandfold!"
The crowd erupted. Even those too weak to stand began chanting.
"Long live Young Master Ren!"
"Glory to the Flintclaw clan!"
The desperation in their cries clawed at Zaric's heart. These people weren't foolish—they were broken. Hope, even false hope, was all they had left.
Ren watched, satisfied. In this moment, he didn't see people—only a staircase built from bodies.
"Ren," the yellow-robed Patriarch said softly, stepping beside him. "You've done well."
Ren gave a faint smile. "Grandfather, please. I only spoke truth. The bones will bring strength. Refining them will cost us lives—but that's the price of progress."
The old man hesitated. "Yes… many may die."
"One success is worth a thousand bones," Ren said coldly. "Their deaths will be remembered. And with fewer mouths, the rest will have more food. Three months is not so long."
He spoke of sacrifice like it was arithmetic.
Down below, Lyra glanced at Zaric. "Zac, are you alright? You've been staring at nothing."
"I'm fine," Zaric murmured, eyes unfocused.
He wasn't listening to Ren anymore.
Because in the air around him, he could see it—tiny specks of golden light, drifting like dust motes in the wind. They slid toward him, slow and unhurried, until one touched his lips and vanished.
Instantly, the yellow amethyst in his chest pulsed cool against his skin.
More lights floated into him, melting into his breath, feeding the gem's glow.
The chill of the stone deepened, spreading through his veins like living starlight.
Zaric's eyes widened.
The energy the amethyst was drinking in—
—it was coming from the desolate bones.
And whatever was sealed inside them was now awake.