FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 200: Chapter 200: Survival VS Slavery

But Thorne didn’t address Sol. He didn’t even acknowledge his arrival beyond that first look. He turned back to Veylara and continued his speech as if Sol were just a piece of furniture.

“We don’t have the luxury of pride, Warchief!” Thorne’s voice was smooth, like a salesman trying to convince you that your house was on fire. “According to our scouts,” Thorne continued, his voice dropping into a grave, urgent tone. “The Marauders are planning another massive attack before the full moon. They’ve joined with the Zerith. We are outnumbered ten to one! We are bleeding warriors every day. Korg’s fall has dealt a blow to our morale that we cannot ignore.”

Veylara didn’t say anything. She looked like she wasn’t even listening, her stormy eyes fixed on the rough marking of the Orrath Forest laid out on the table. Zephyra was the same, her eyes closed in a trance, blowing smoke rings that hovered in the air like tiny, ghostly halos.

Thorne pressed, stepping closer to the table. “The Zharun Tribe has sent another envoy. They have heard of our loss and have generously retracted the demand for your marriage. They realize that was… a bit forward. They are being absolutely reasonable!

They assure us that if we merge, the Veynar will maintain our sovereignty. We will be equal partners. They only want to unite our bloodlines to face the Marauders together. All they ask is that we unite our banners and share our hunting grounds. They have two Earth-Blood Kings, Veylara. Think of the safety! Think of the children!”

Sol found a spot near the back wall, Miya hovering beside him, her bubbly demeanor finally suppressed by the gravity of the room.

“Equal sovereignty?”

The shout came from the opposite side of the hall. This was Elder Harkan, a veteran warrior. He was tall, with a shock of red hair and a scarred chest, his phantom a massive, four-armed Great Ape that pounded its spectral fists against the floor.

“Thorne, you’ve spent too much time sniffing the Zharun’s incense. They are bloodthirsty savages!” Harkan

roared, his voice like gravel in a blender. “How can you believe a single word they say? You’d have to be insane to trust a tribe that has already ’annexed’ two other human clans. Have you seen those clans lately, Thorne? No, because they don’t exist anymore! Their men are used as cannon fodder and their women are treated like cattle! To believe their word is to invite a snake into your bed and hope it only bites your enemies!”

Harkan slammed his fist on the table. “Veynar has always been proud. We have overcome countless tribulations without bowing our heads. We will not bow our heads now. I would rather die fighting a Marauder than live as a dog on a Zharun leash!”

“We will continue to fight for our survival, even if it means dying in the roots of this tree!”

Sol felt a surge of respect for Harkan. The man’s speech was raw, impassioned, and held the true spirit of the warriors Sol had seen on the ridge. Several other elders and young warriors nodded in agreement, their own phantoms flickering with defiant light.

“Harkan is right,” another female elder added, her hawk phantom shrieking. “The Heartwood and our blood have kept us… yet pride alone will not feed the hungry; sometimes survival demands hands that are willing to do what the heart cannot.”

Thorne didn’t flinch. He turned to Harkan, his expression shifting into one of pity. “You are the one who has gone insane, Haren. Survival is the most important law of the forest. “You talk about dying in battle… are you going to be the one to tell the widows that their husbands died because you were too ’proud’ to accept help? Are you going to be responsible for the end of our bloodline?”

Thorne looked around the room, his eyes landing on the younger warriors. “We cannot let our people die in vain just to satisfy your archaic sense of ’pride.’ When the Marauders break the inner gates and start eating our infants, will you be the one to tell the mothers that at least we didn’t bow our heads?”

Thorne stepped closer to Harkan, his voice dropping into a low, deadly whisper. “If a temporary merger means the survival of our blood, what is the harm in a little diplomacy? Who knows? After we defeat the Marauders together, perhaps we’ll find a way to separate again. But you can’t separate if you’re all rotting in the dirt.”

The hall went silent.

Sol watched from the sidelines, his modern mind analyzing the debate. He had thought Thorne was just a prick… and he clearly was… but he hadn’t expected his reasoning to be so grounded in the cold, hard logic of survival.

It was the classic “Peace at any cost” versus “Freedom or death” argument. He was using the ultimate shield: the safety of the weak. It was the kind of argument that was almost impossible to beat because it painted the opposition as heartless. On Earth, Thorne would have been a high-ranking bureaucrat selling out a country to save its infrastructure.

“Survival under others is not survival,” Harkan spat, his Ape phantom letting out a low, vibrating growl. “It’s a slow extinction.”

Thorne ignored him and turned his gaze toward the back of the room. His eyes locked onto Sol. A long, uncomfortably silent look passed between them. Thorne’s gaze was calculating, stripping Sol down to his marrow, looking for a weakness. Korash, sitting beside his father, narrowed his eyes, his Boar phantom snorting a warning.

“And what of our ’Divine’ guest?” Thorne asked, his tone dripping with mock reverence. “He arrives in a flash of light just as the sky turns red. A ’Lost One’ with no totem and a fancy tunic. Tell me, Warchief, is this boy our salvation? Or is he just another mouth to feed while we wait for the Zharun to save us?”

Veylara finally spoke. Her voice was like a cool breeze that instantly dropped the room’s temperature. “Sol is a guest. His presence is a matter for the Shamanic Grove, not the Council table. We Veynar always treat our guests with respect. Thorne.”

Thorne gave a sarcastic, shallow bow. “Of course, Warchief. My apologies. I forgot that we prioritize ’mysteries’ over military reality.”

Sol didn’t say anything, as it wasn’ t his place as an outsider to meddle in matters of survival.

Thorne backed down, his Vulture phantom spreading its wings to their full, oppressive span. “The Zharun envoy will return at the high moon tomorrow. They expect an answer. If we refuse… well, the forest is a very dangerous place for a tribe with no allies.”

“Enough,” Veylara finally spoke. Her voice didn’t rise, but the Tigress on her shoulders let out a low, vibrating growl that silenced the room instantly.

He didn’t know when Kira had walked over to his side, her expression unreadable. “You heard it all, didn’t you?”

“I heard a man trying to sell a house while the roof is on fire,” Sol replied.

Kira let out a hollow laugh. “Elder Thorne is a vulture. He’s always been one. But he’s right about one thing… Korg’s death has changed everything. The warriors are scared, Sol. They’ve seen the ’unbeatable’ fall. They’re looking for a sign.”

She looked at him, her stormy eyes searching his. “The Rite of the First Soul. It’s in two days. But my mother… she wants you to attempt an early awakening. Today.”

“Today?” Sol asked, his heart skipping a beat.

As the silence finally settled, Veykara turned her stormy gaze to Sol. “That’s it. The council will continue this discussion later.

Sol walked into the center of the hall, the eyes of the elders burning into his back.

Thorne looked at him, a sneer curling his lip. “Ah, the ’Divine One.’ Let’s see if he can even survive the spark of a Sun Core. If he fails, perhaps we can offer him to the Zharun as a jester. They love pretty things in dresses.”

Korash chuckled, but Sol didn’t even look at them. He stood before Veylara and Zephyra, his face a mask of calm.

“High Shaman,” Veylara said, gesturing to Zephyra. “Proceed with the guidance. Let’s see if the ’Lost One’ has a soul worth taming.”

High Shaman Zephyra drifted forward, her spirit-smoke curling around her like a living shawl. She blew a long, thin stream of silver vapor toward Sol.

“The forest is restless, lately,” Zephyra whispered, her voice melodic and haunting. “The Singing Moss is changing its tune. There is a weight in the air that wasn’t there before you arrived. We cannot wait for the formal ceremony. And since you are the only one who hasn’t awakened his core, we’ll help you wake one today.”