FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 46: Chapter 46: Wilderness Is No Place For Heroes

Lyra’s concession hung in the air, a fragile agreement born of desperation. But before Sol could say another word, the silence in the corner of the hut broke.

“Sol…”

Liora, the youngest, scrambled up from the dirt floor. She didn’t hold back. She threw herself at him, clinging to his arm like a desperate vine, her small hands clutching his tunic so tight her knuckles turned white.

Her wide hazel eyes, framed by a mess of tangled hair that fell constantly into her face, were swimming with unshed tears. She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling.

“Are you really going? Really sure?” she breathed, her voice breathless and rapid. “It’s so dangerous out there. The beasts… they have teeth as big as knives, and they are bigger than trees in jungle. What if you get hurt again? What if you don’t come back? I… I can’t…”

She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking. Sol looked down at her. Liora was the same age as him, technically an adult by tribal standards, but she possessed a fragile, innocent charm that made everyone want to shield her. She was soft, petite, and clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

Sol patted her head awkwardly, feeling the warmth of her dependency. “I’ll be fine, Liora. I promise. I’m not the same weakling I was yesterday.”

“Hah!”

A sharp, derisive scoff cut through the tender moment like a serrated blade.

Veyra sat by the fire, not even bothering to stand. She was twenty, lean and angular, with a beauty that was as severe as a weapon. Her gray eyes were piercing, filled with a defensive disdain, and her short, dark hair was pinned back aggressively with sharp bone shards.

She didn’t look at Sol; she looked at the fire, stabbing a stick into the embers.

“Listen to him,” Veyra spat, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “He stands up to Vurok once… probably because Vurok slipped on shit—and now he thinks he’s a predator.”

She turned her gaze on him then, rolling her eyes.

“You? Hunting?” She laughed, a short, biting sound. “Don’t make me laugh. You trip over your own feet gathering firewood. You think you can outsmart a Thornmaw? Pathetic. You’ll be dead before noon, and we’ll be the ones crying over an empty grave.”

“Veyra!” Lyra scolded, but the middle sister just shrugged, her jaw set in a stubborn, defensive line. She was the thorn of the family… prickly, proud, and hiding her fear behind a wall of scorn.

Sol didn’t get angry. With his new perception, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand gripped the stick too tightly. She was terrified for him, but she would rather die than admit it.

“I might surprise you, Veyra,” Sol said calmly, meeting her icy gaze with a warm smile.

Veyra blinked, clearly expecting him to cower or snap back. She scoffed again, looking away, but the tips of her ears turned pink. “Whatever. Just don’t bleed on the good furs when they drag your body back.”

“Enough.”

A third voice joined the fray… calm, measured, and undeniably commanding in its gentleness.

Arelia, the oldest, rose from the shadows where she had been tending to a small pile of herbs. She moved with a natural, flowing grace, her long dark hair braided intricately with wooden beads and feathers clicking softly as she walked.

She was the anchor. While Veyra was the storm and Liora was the rain, Arelia was the earth. Her sun-kissed skin glowed in the firelight, and her soft brown eyes held a maternal depth that instantly lowered the temperature in the room.

She gently peeled Liora off Sol’s arm, murmuring a soft reassurance to the younger girl, before turning to Veyra.

“Veyra speaks from fear,” Arelia said, her voice steady. “The river creates rapids when the rocks are sharpest. She does not wish to lose you, Sol. None of us do.”

She stepped closer to Sol, placing a warm, calloused hand on his cheek. Her touch was grounding.

“The jungle is not a place for heroes, Sol,” she said, using that metaphorical style she loved. “The tall tree breaks in the wind; the grass survives because it bends. If you go out there, do not try to be the tree. Be the grass. Be the wind.”

Sol looked at the three of them.

Arelia, the nurturer, serene and dignified. Veyra, the warrior-spirit, sharp and striking. Liora, the innocent, soft and endearing.

Damn, Sol thought, his “cultured” mind momentarily overriding his survival instincts. How did such incredible genes survive in this mud hut? They’re all stunning.

It reinforced his resolve. He wasn’t just fighting for himself anymore. He was fighting for this. He wouldn’t let these women rot in poverty, afraid of the world, eating dirt while the hunters feasted. He would build a world where Arelia could rest, where Veyra didn’t need to be sharp to survive, and where Liora could smile without fear.

“I will be careful,” Sol said, looking at each of them in turn. “I will be the grass. I will be the wind. And I will bring back meat.”

He gently removed Arelia’s hand from his face, though he lingered for a second longer than necessary.

Seeing his resolve, the tension in Lyra’s shoulders finally unknotted. A small, weary smile touched her lips.

“Okay,” she sighed, relenting. “You came back at a good time, actually. The spirits were kind to us today.”

She gestured to the woven basket sitting by the fire pit. Sol looked inside. It was filled with a chaotic assortment of foraging goods: gnarled, purple tubers that looked like bruised fingers, leafy greens that smelled faintly of sulfur, and various weirdly shaped wild fruits.

“And look,” Lyra said, her voice dropping to a whisper of excitement. “We caught these near the snare traps.”

She pulled back a large leaf to reveal two small, furry carcasses. They looked like rabbits, but with six ears and slightly longer hind legs.