FREE USE in Primitive World

”Zeyra! Come show these fledglings how a true vanguard dances!” a Layer 2 female veteran with a scarred jaw bellowed, her face flushed red from excitement as she slapped the table with a heavy palm.

Two seasoned female scouts from Zeyra’s flank squad stepped up behind her, grinning playfully as they hooked their elbows around hers. ”No hiding behind Sol tonight. You promised us three rounds of the lion-step if we made it back!”

Zeyra let out a sharp, dramatic groan, though her dark eyes were sparkling with amusement. She glanced over her shoulder at Sol, raising her cup in a mocking salute. ”Don’t get eaten by other girls while I’m gone.”

”I’ll try to survive,” Sol rasped dryly.

With a fluid, athletic twist, Zeyra allowed herself to be swept into the inner circle of the dance.

Unlike Kira’s light, agile leaps, Zeyra’s movements were sharp, aggressive, and full of rhythm.

She stomped her feet hard against the dirt, matching the deepest booms of the war drums, her long black hair swirling wild around her shoulders.

She traded mock combat lunges with the veteran warriors in the center, spinning on the ball of her foot with razor-sharp precision, her crimson tunic catching the fiery orange light like fresh embers.

Sol leaned against the sturdy wooden post of an elevated spectator platform, watching the two of them lose themselves in the joy of their people.

A quiet warmth settled into his chest beneath his linen tunic. Seeing Kira’s bright laughter and Zeyra’s fierce, radiant pride made the blood spilled in the battlefield and the muddy trenches of the Zerith feel entirely justified.

They had carved out this peace with their own hands.

However, standing by himself in the center of a victory feast proved to be an impossible task.

Now that Kira and Zeyra were no longer flanking him, the barrier between Sol and the rest of the clan dissolved completely.

To the Veynar, Sol was no longer just an enigmatic outsider or an honored guest. He was the black-armored reaper who had single-handedly broken the coalition, butchered four Layer 4 warlords, breached the impregnable Marauder settlement, and delivered three entire territories to their feet without a single Veynar casualty.

He was a living legend walking among them.

So, the moment they left the floodgates opened.

”Champion Sol!” a stocky warrior shouted, practically stumbling over his own boots as he shoved a steaming wooden skewer loaded with thick chunks of roasted beast-liver into Sol’s hand. ”Eat! Fresh from the high pit! The marrow is still bubbling!”

Before Sol could even take a bite, an older woman with silver-streaked hair stepped in from the left, clutching a wide clay bowl filled with some juices. ”Don’t give him that dry meat, Gurn! Here, Champion, drink the sweet juice! My grandchildren gathered them at the weir this morning in your honor!”

”Thank you,” Sol managed to say, taking the bowl with a polite nod.

”Sol! Drink!” another booming voice roared as Commander Thauren himself materialized out of the smoky crowd. The massive commander threw a heavy, bear-like arm around Sol’s shoulders, his breath smelling overwhelmingly of strong fermented juice.

Thauren shoved a large, polished horn brimming with dark, weird looking juice into Sol’s free hand.

”To the man who kicked the Marauder gates off their hinges!” Thauren bellowed to the surrounding crowd, raising his own tankard high. ”I thought we were marching into a meat-grinder, and you turned it into a stroll through the meadows! Drink, lad! If you don’t finish that whole horn, I’ll tell the Warchief you’re slacking!”

”To Sol!” a dozen surrounding warriors roared back, raising their cups and drinking in unison.

Sol let out an exhausted breath, tilting his head back and downing the potent juice in a few long, steady gulps. The fiery liquid burned a warm path down his throat, settling like liquid heat in his stomach.

”Good man!” Thauren roared, slapping Sol’s back with enough force to crack an ordinary man’s spine before wobbling off toward the roasting pit to argue over a roast ox leg.

Yet there was still no reprieve.

As soon as Thauren walked away, a small cluster of adult women from the younger generation of the tribe closed in.

Most looked to be in their late teens or early twenties... huntresses, weavers’ daughters, and junior warriors who had watched Sol return from the campaigns with open, hungry interest.

Seeing him all alone, they hurriedly surrounded him. It was like a group of predators had found a helpless prey, at least that’s what their hungry desire filled eyes show.

They nudged each other with poorly hidden eagerness until the boldest among them finally stepped forward, cheeks faintly flushed, and held out a carefully polished bone pendant carved in the shape of a soaring hawk.

”For you, Champion Sol,” she said, voice steady but clearly working for it. ”We... watched you return so heroically. This is our gratitude.”

Sol accepted the bone pendant, crimson eyes moving across the small, insistent group with calm assessment.

It’s well-made,” he said. ”Keep honing your own skills. The tribe will need strong hands in the seasons ahead.”

Seeing him so approachable seemed to encourage the others. One woman smiled as if he had issued an invitation rather than a polite dismissal. Another used the moment to step in even closer, fingers briefly covering his as she ”helped” him secure the pendant.

A third circled just behind the first, close enough that her shoulder nearly touched his when she leaned in to inspect the carving with exaggerated interest.

Someone’s knuckles grazed the back of his hand as the pendant was finally pressed into his palm. Another’s fingertips trailed briefly along his shirt under the pretense of adjusting it.

Slowly, they showed no sign of leaving. If anything, they grew bolder and bolder, the touches lingering a fraction longer, the space between them shrinking until the heat of several bodies pressed against him.

They teased with their proximity more than their words, testing how long he would allow the circle to tighten, how much contact he would tolerate before saying anything.