Upon the front deck of a building in Sharirun, the Chief sat cross-legged beside his friend, Master Norion the blacksmith. They smoked their pipes in quiet companionship, watching the gardens they had cultivated through an open wall in the Chief’s home. The blacksmith’s pipe was plain and wooden; the Chief’s was adorned with crimson paint and swirls of gold. The Chief wore his usual grin, while the blacksmith kept his typical sour scowl. Few would look at them in that moment and recognize the deep bond they shared.

  “Didn’t you swipe his sword when you had the chance, huh?” the blacksmith grunted. As unapproachable as he often was, the Chief swore his friend’s scowl softened a little when they smoked together.

  “It’s a fine blade,” the Chief said, “though one I’ve seen before.”

  “That so? With who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  The blacksmith took another deep drag, exhaling like a steaming kettle. “I think we just might see the gates open before we die, you know.”

  The Chief hummed. “Doubt you’d be able to appreciate it, though,” he replied with a mature chuckle.

  From around the corner, all twenty students emerged from the forest, groaning in pain. Many were soaked from washing off toxins, their uniforms torn, streaked with blood and peeling skin. Yig was draped over Slye’s shoulder, and both looked ready to collapse.

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  “Glad you could join us,” the Chief said. “How’d you fare?”

  Pervoick stepped forward. “We did it! The bears are gone!”

  “Great. Go clean yourselves up.”

  Pervoick froze. Others tried to guide him away, but—“That’s it!? You rotten old geezer, do you even know what we just did!? And that’s all you have to say!?”

  His eye twitched like a restless fly, nearly bursting with frustration.

  “I’m glad you’re proud of yourselves. Keep up the good work!”

  He screamed—not high-pitched or threatening, just a guttural cry of frustration to the sky.

  “You’re right, Un,” the blacksmith said to the Chief. “The boy’s maturing.”

  “Don’t insult him. Didn’t you hear what he said? He’s been through a lot.”

  “Damn right! We did a master’s job, and we did it well,” Pervoick snapped. “And then we got attacked when we got back!”

  “Oh, so that’s what we heard,” the blacksmith muttered, taking another puff from his pipe.

  “You’re right,” the Chief replied in a calm, parental tone. “But answer me this: if you know how well you did, why wait for my praise? You did it, didn’t you? So why need my approval?”

  “Come on, you know you’re respected. Of course your approval means something.”

  “Well, you’ve got it, haven’t you? And still, you don’t seem satisfied.” The Chief took another puff, letting the silence settle. “Here’s another question: why do you think we gave you this mission if we didn’t have faith in you? Do you really believe your superiors—the wisdom of the village—would so easily throw away the lives of our young men and women?”

  Pervoick sighed. “What’s your point?”