The silence in the square was profound, broken only by the crackling of the nearby braziers and the ragged, bloody breathing of Elder Thorne, who still lay crumpled in the dirt under the watchful, spectral gaze of Warchief Veylara's Storm-Tiger.
Every single eye in the Veynar tribe was locked onto Sol. Even though she had tried to lower her voice, but thanks to the unleashed form of her phantom, her question hung in the air, echoing the collective disbelief of hundreds of seasoned hunters and gatherers.
"How did an unranked human possibly manage to kill and anchor a creature like that?"
Sol looked at Veylara's intense golden eyes, then glanced at High Shaman Zephyra, whose milky gaze was sharp with analytical suspicion. He knew he was standing on a razor's edge.
He had the power, yes, but the Great Orrath was a world built on logic, brutal food chains, and undeniable physical truths.
