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They saw the heavy, inevitable cost of their profession. Because of that shared, unspoken bond, the Vanguard warriors were fiercely protective of him. They excused his prick behavior because, in their eyes, he had paid the ultimate blood tax. He had earned the right to be bitter.

Warchief Veylara knew this. She was a warrior herself, and her hands had been tied by this collective Vanguard sympathy for years.

In fact, the only reason Veylara had recently been able to punish Thorne and strip away some of his political influence was entirely because of Sol.

When Sol had beaten Vurok in the dirt, he hadn’t just won a fight. He had revealed his foundation. He had anchored a Lord Blood spirit.

In the Veynar tribe, sympathy only went so far. At the end of the day, they were a warrior culture, and warriors worshipped one thing above all else: absolute strength. A Lord Blood spirit wasn’t just rare; it was a messiah-level manifestation of power. It elevated Sol’s prestige in the hearts of the Vanguard instantly, rocketing him past Thorne’s legacy in a matter of seconds.

The Vanguard respected Thorne’s past sacrifices, but Sol represented their future. With a Lord Blood foundation, Sol was a walking, breathing guarantee that he possessed the raw potential to lead the tribe to a safer, better place. He was their ticket out of this accursed, rotting hellhole of a jungle where the threat of death hung over their heads every single day.

Veylara, being a brilliant and utterly pragmatic Warchief, had recognized that shift in the wind immediately. She had used the absolute shock and awe of Sol’s Lord Blood reveal to bypass the Vanguard’s protective sympathy for Thorne. The warriors were too blinded by the hope Sol represented to defend Thorne when Veylara finally dropped the hammer, punishing the elder for his grandson’s actions and actively slashing his influence in the council.

But that was a one-time tactical strike. It was a disciplinary action over a bullying incident.

Accusing a grieving war hero of orchestrating a beast tide and assassinating an elder in a locked cell? Without a single piece of hard evidence?

That was a completely different game. The Vanguard’s fierce loyalty to their own would snap right back into place. Sol was still, technically, an outsider who had just proved how dangerously, terrifyingly powerful he was. If he pointed a finger now, the warriors wouldn’t see their Lord Blood savior trying to root out corruption. They would see an overpowered, arrogant monster trying to execute a traumatized veteran and usurp the Warchief’s throne.

An accusation like that wouldn’t purge the traitor. It would ignite a massive, bloody civil war right inside the inner rings, tearing the tribe apart before the Zharun even had to lift a finger.

The Veynar tribe was already bleeding. Their walls were splintered, their soul vault was almost empty of truly high level spirits for future generations, and their warriors were exhausted. If they turned their blades on each other now, the Zharun wouldn’t even need to trigger another beast tide. They could just walk through the front gates and slaughter the survivors.

Sol finally broke the heavy silence hanging over them.

“We do nothing,” Sol finally said, his voice a low, flat rasp that cut through the ambient noise of the rebuilding settlement.

Kira blinked, her golden eyes widening in shock. “What? Did you not just hear what we said? Thorne is actively dismantling the tribe from the inside! He killed an elder!”

“And he left zero proof,” Sol shot back smoothly, turning his head to look at her. “He assassinated a man inside your mother’s most secure detention block and walked away clean. That means he has eyes and ears everywhere. If you run to the Warchief now, he’ll know before you even reach her throne.

Sol stepped closer to her, his towering Layer 2 physique casting a heavy shadow over Kira.

“Think about it, Kira,” Sol pressed, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “He’ll twist the narrative. He’ll play the grieving war hero. He’ll claim the elder actually did commit suicide out of shame for failing to protect the vault. And what do you have to counter it? A gut feeling? If you push it, he’ll just trigger an uprising using his old warrior loyalists, and the Veynar will bleed themselves dry before the Zharun even have to draw a sword.”

Zeyra crossed her arms, leaning against the petrified wood railing. A slow, highly appreciative smirk formed on her elegant lips.

“He is right, Huntress,” Zeyra purred, her dark eyes flashing with calculating intelligence. “Politics is not a muddy battlefield where you can just swing a sharp stick until the problem disappears. You need leverage. You need absolute, undeniable proof. Or, you need to remove the piece from the board so quietly that no one can ever trace the blood back to you.”

“I’m not an assassin,” Kira practically growled, her fierce Vanguard pride bristling at Zeyra’s casual suggestion of murder in the dark.

“Neither am I,” Sol lied effortlessly, keeping his face an impenetrable mask. “Which is exactly why we keep our heads down. We act like we bought the suicide story completely. We let Thorne think he won this round. He thinks he outsmarted everyone.”

Sol looked out over the settlement, his gaze locking onto the massive, imposing structure of the High Hall.

“Arrogance breeds sloppiness,” Sol continued coldly. “He’ll make a mistake eventually. He has to contact his Zharun handlers. He has to coordinate the next strike. And when he makes that move, we won’t just accuse him in front of the council. We’ll catch him in the act. And then we’ll bury him in the mud where he belongs.”

Kira let out a long, highly frustrated breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. She hated the deception. She was a frontline warrior; she wanted to see her enemies in the open so she could fight them head-on.

But she wasn’t stupid.

She had survived the Great Orrath this long because she understood tactics. And she knew Sol was right.