FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 190: Chapter 190: Meeting The Veynar Chief & Shaman

This was the center of the tribe’s power, and as they entered, Sol felt the weight of hundreds of years of tradition.

Inside the massive circular building, the atmosphere changed from the humid, wood-scented air of the city to something sacred, cold, and heavy with the scent of ancient incense.

The walls were rib-like arches of polished white bone… the remains of some mountain-sized behemoth from an era long forgotten… fused seamlessly into the obsidian-colored wood.

Sol walked a few paces behind Kira, his crimson eyes narrowing as he activated his Sovereign’s Gaze.

The room was pulsing, like literally.

To his enhanced vision, the entire hall was a web of sapphire-colored energy. Every bone arch, every stone tile, and even the air itself was saturated with power. It was like walking into the core of a nuclear reactor, only the radiation was alive and humming a low, melodic tune.

Fuck, Sol thought, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists. The scale is off the charts. Back home, the shaman was just a pretty mysterious woman. Here, the building itself could probably vaporize me if I breathed wrong.

At the end of the hall, seated on a throne of petrified oak, was a woman who made Sol’s heart pause.

She was the mirror of Kira, but aged into a majestic, terrifying perfection.

She was a woman who defined the word majestic. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with the same stormy sea eyes as Kira, but hers were tempered by the cold steel of leadership. Her skin was the color of dark honey, her hair a waterfall of dark-obsidian that reached her waist, held back by a crown of obsidian thorns.

She wore armor of shimmering white scales, and draped across her shoulders was the living pelt of a Great White Tigress

… a phantom so dense it looked like it could pounce any second. The tigress’s translucent claws rested on the armrests of the throne, its golden eyes locked onto Sol with a hunger that made the Silver Liquid in his chest churn.

And beside her was the High shaman.

She wasn’t the withered crone Sol had expected. High Shaman Zephyra was ethereal. Her hair was a liquid silver that seemed to float in the air, unburdened by gravity. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and she wore robes of deep violet color that moved like smoke. In her hand was a long, slender pipe made of blue bone.

Zephyra took a long pull from the pipe and exhaled. A cloud of thick, glowing silver smoke curled around her face, swirling in patterns that looked like tiny, dancing spirits.

“Mother,” Kira said, her voice cracking as she knelt on the cold stone floor.

Sol was shocked by her sudden address, ’Damn, so her mother was the Chief. That explains why the warriors protected them so much on the battlefield.’

Sol didn’t kneel. He stood in the center of the hall, the Silver Liquid in his chest settling into a calm, predatory pool. He felt the Warchief’s pressure… it was like a massive weight on his shoulders… but thanks to his weird body and silver liquid he simply breathed through it.

Veylara the Warchief didn’t look at her daughter. Her eyes were fixed on Sol… specifically, on the shimmering white tunic that glowed with its own internal light.

“Stand up, Kira,” Veylara said. Her voice was like a velvet hammer, soft but capable of crushing bone. “And explain why you have brought a Divine-One into the heart of our sanctuary while others are at war with maruderers?

Kira rose, her legs trembling slightly. “Korg is dead, Mother. The Western hunting ground has fallen. The Marauders… they had help from the Zerith. It was a slaughter. But in the eye of the storm, I found him. He has no clan, no totem… but look at his raiment. Look at his eyes. He looked just like a divine one, that’s why I took the risk and brought him straight to the tribe.”

The shaman, Zephyra drifted forward. She didn’t walk; she glided, her feet barely touching the ground. She took another puff of the spirit smoke, blowing a long, thin stream toward Sol.

The smoke didn’t dissipate. It swirled around Sol’s head, probing his ears, his nose, and the faint mark on his forehead like a dozen invisible fingers.

“A divine one?” Zephyra whispered, her voice like wind whistling through a crypt. She leaned in close, the scent of wild jasmine and cold ash hitting Sol’s senses. “Yes. He carries the scent of the Void. The taste of Ambrosia still lingers on his skin… But strangely… there is no totem or divine power in his body.”

She looked at Veylara, a thin, mysterious smile playing on her lips. “He is not a divine envoy, Warchief. But he has been touched by one. Deeply. Violently.”

Violently is one way to put it, Sol thought, keeping his face a mask of stoic indifference.

Veylara stood up. The Tigress phantom on her shoulders let out a low, guttural roar that made the lanterns in the hall flicker. She walked down the steps of the dais, her chitin armor clinking softly. She stopped inches from Sol, her height surpassing him a bit.

“You speak our tongue, stranger,” Veylara said, her stormy eyes searching his crimson ones. “You wear the ’Divine-Cloth’, a material that hasn’t been seen in this forest since ages, Who are you?

Sol met her gaze unblinking. Despite the massive pressure weighing on his body, he didn’t bow or flinch. The Silver Liquid in his heart sloshed, providing a cold, steady anchor of resolve.

“My name is Sol,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, melodic timber. “I’m just a mortal. As for the clothes… they were a gift from a lady who owed me a favor. I didn’t ask for the ’Divine’ title, and I don’t care about your legends.

For a second, there was only silence in the room, Kira nudged at him discreetly, while Zephyra looked at him with amusement. Because no one spoke to the Warchief with such blunt, unfiltered arrogance. Veylara was not just a leader… she was the most powerful and respected figure in the tribe,

Veylara stared at him for a long heartbeat before a thin, dangerous smile touched her lips. “Arrogance. At least you carry that like a Divine envoy.”

“Mother, he saved me!” Kira interjected, stepping forward, her voice trembling with urgency. “He snapped the arm of a Zerith with a single touch. He didn’t use a totem, he just… did it.”

Zephyra’s silver eyes widened. She took a massive pull from her pipe, the silver smoke turning a deep, agitated blue. “How amusing!”

She drifted around Sol like a phantom, her spirit‑smoke thickening until it pooled at his feet, obscuring them from view. She reached out a long, slender finger and touched the shimmering fabric of his tunic. The moment her skin met the material, a spark of white energy snapped between them.

Zephyra recoiled, her ethereal calm momentarily shattered. As she turned to look at Veylara.

Veylara didn’t say anything, just crossed her arms over her chest. “The tribe is in chaos, Zephyra. The ’Red Sky’ has frightened everyone, Korg is dead, and the enemies are vultures at our western border. We’ll talk about this later.”

Then, with a measured turn, she fixed her gaze on Sol. “Very well, Sol,” she said, her tone carrying both warning and recognition. “You are a guest of the Veynar. For now.”

Sol maintained the same stoic face. Inside, though, his thoughts churned. A guest. For now. It was both an invitation and a threat, a reminder that his place here was fragile, conditional.

Veylara looked at the Shaman. “Zephyra, what say you?”

“The Great Orrath has welcomed him,” the Shaman rasped. “The Singing Moss plays for him. We cannot cast him out. But… let him prove his ’survival.’

“The Rite of the First Soul is in three days,” Zephyra suggested, her voice regaining its melodic lilt. She blew a smoke ring that hovered in the air like a halo. “If the forest has truly welcomed him, it will provide. Let him attempt the Awakening. If he survives the forest’s judgment, he is one of us. And the forest will grant him a phantom. If he is a fraud… the forest will simply keep his bones.”

Kira’s breath hitched. “The First Soul? But he hasn’t even trained!”