The party that was held in Dane's name last night was more than enough to make up for the shitty encounter with the lazy guards. The drinks were free and plentiful; they even let him use the Chiefs' bath before. Zeph didn't have much fun; he spent the whole night sober as a judge and watching everyone who got a little too close. Dane would have to discuss it with him. With his sheltered upbringing, the betrayal and enslavement were brutal on the Eagle.

  He didn't know how to broach the subject, given the nature of their relationship. He wasn't quite sure if they were still rivals or if they were on the way to becoming friends. Maybe a mix of the two, but it made it tricky to talk to him.

  Dane wiped the gunk out of his eyes and blew his nose. The fires had been numerous, and his sinuses were wreaking havoc on him. It was amusing; he knew he would live over a thousand years, but he still faced such mundane problems. He got dressed and wandered off to find some breakfast.

  The common room was crowded with both humans and beastmen, sharing benches and bowls of porridge like they were one happy family.

  He sat across from Zephyr at a scarred oak table. A steaming bowl of thin porridge sat between them, the grain stretched with water until it barely clung to the spoon.

  Zephyr stirred his portion with disinterest; instead, he tilted his head to listen to conversations around them. "These people are afraid," he said, voice low. "Every monster in the area knows that this is the easiest dinner, and they think it'll happen again. Some even wish you hadn't saved them, saying that it's crueler to dangle hope in front of them before they get killed."

  Dane lifted his spoon, blew gently, and took a taste. It was bland, but hot. After a long, exaggerated sigh, he said. "Can I eat my shitty breakfast before you drop some more end-of-the-world shit on me?"

  Zephyr's sharp eyes narrowed. "I'm just telling you what the people are saying, we need to get out of here before you become a permanent Hero here."

  The words were pragmatic, even reasonable. Something didn't sit right with him leaving these people to die, though.

  "You'll only drown yourself," Zephyr added, "trying to prop up every dying village in the Reach."

  Before Dane could answer, a woman approached, somewhere in her mid-thirties, with dark hair tied back by a strip of cloth. She carried herself in a way that every waitress over thirty did, a look that cut through bullshit and snotty customers. Her hands were red from the steaming washbasin, and her eyes looked as if she hadn't had a good night's sleep in months. Yet her voice was steady as she set down a pitcher.

  "Take me with you," she said.

  Dane blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"

  She gave a slight shrug, too casual for the request she'd just made. "It's boring here."

  Boring. That wasn't what he saw in her eyes. Behind the shrug was a bone-deep weariness, a longing to escape before the next wave tore through these walls.

  He held her gaze for a long moment but said nothing. She turned away, pretending indifference, though her knuckles tightened around the pitcher's handle.

  At the next table, two beastmen whispered. Dane caught fragments, "another surge … soon … wall won't hold."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  His spoon clinked against the bowl. That was enough. He pushed back his chair. "Where's the chief?"

  From outside the gate, the village looked tiny, but it was actually rather large, housing thousands of people. Dane supposed that it made sense, given the Necrobunny's ability to summon at least a thousand dead for her army.

  He walked past the city square towards a small hut on the edge of town, right next to the wooden and stone wall. It was built in the traditional way of the Beast tide and could be broken down at a moment's notice, but from the wear and repairs on it. That probably hadn't been for decades, perhaps even centuries. Dane entered the Small home. It was much larger on the inside, housing a large hall that was fitting for a local lord's house.

  The chief sat upon a carved seat, its scales a dull, dusty green; his frame was hunched, but his eyes were still bright; they were deep wells of yellow cut by the darkest black Dane had ever seen. He wore robes stitched with the fading patterns of the Beast Tide. Mostly spirals and fangs, and even a large pictogram of a hunt from long ago.

  "Why have you come, little Dragon?" he said, his voice rasping like gravel dragged over stone. "We keep to ourselves. Why have we brought the ire of the Great ones?"

  Dane bowed respectfully. "I am no Dragon."

  The old lizard gave a dry chuckle. "And I am not a thousand years old. Believe what you wish, I can feel it on you. Now tell me, what is it you want?"

  "I have come to ask about your totem," Dane said. "In the Beast tide, it keeps the monster out. Why is yours dark?"

  The chief's gaze turned distant, fixed on memories only he could see. "It stood as our shield for centuries. Then, about a decade ago, its power began to fade." His claws tightened on the arm of his chair. "We endure, but each time the monsters take more."

  Dane frowned. "If you've fought so many battles, why aren't you stronger? Your people should be high-level by now."

  It was Zephyr who answered. "The Primal Accord does not level by slaughter. Our strength comes only from consuming treasures with cosmic energy. Bloodshed would destroy the balance of nature."

  The old lizardman stirred, eyes sharpening on Dane. "You carry relics of power. A dragon's scale. The fang of a serpent. I feel them even now." He leaned forward, scales creaking with the effort. "I know the cost of what is asked. Would you lend them to reignite the totem?"

  The request was simple, yet impossible. Dane shook his head. "I can't. Those relics are for my Rite. Without them, my path would end here."

  The chief sagged back, disappointment etching deeper lines into his ancient face. "Then so be it. One path for another is a price too steep."

  Dane's jaw tightened. He hated the resignation in that voice, the surrender before the fight was even lost. He stepped closer. "That's it? You are just gonna give up and become monster food?"

  The chief looked shocked by the questions. "I have no intention of seizing your treasures. We have been fighting for a decade. Sometimes you have to turn your back on the old to continue forward."

  The look in the lizard's eye grew cold; he already had one foot in the grave. Dane couldn't continue the conversation. He never understood those who gave up. On his way out of town, he saw the cold totem. Just a pole in the center of a dying village. It called to him.

  Dane laid his hand upon it. The stone was cold, rough beneath his palm. He closed his eyes, reaching inward, calling on the essence that burned in his veins. He pushed it outward.

  The totem trembled. Fissures spread like veins of light, green fire bleeding through cracks. With a thunderous crack, it erupted in viridian brilliance. A shield of shimmering energy rose above the village, humming like a heartbeat returned to life.

  Villagers gathered, shielding their eyes, awed whispers sweeping through the crowd.

  Dane drew back, his chest heaving. He turned to the people. "Will none of you seek your Beast gods. If you pass their trials, they will give you relics." The crowd grew quiet with his declaration. "What I have done to the totem will last only a short time, a year at most. Fight for yourselves or don't."

  A boy in the back of the crowd caught his eye. He knew the look. His eyes were defiant and unyielding. The boy was no more than fourteen, but he was Lion-born. Dane approached him and pressed the less beat-up of his two daggers into the young man's chest. "You'll need this."

  "Thank you," The teen whispered with equal parts pride and fear of the unknown.

  Without another word, Dane turned and stepped through the gate, Zeph falling into stride beside him. Behind them, the village burst into a storm of mummers and hushed voices; neither looked back.