The heavy humidity of the bathhouse had long faded, replaced by the crisp and refreshing clarity of the June air. It was a wind that tasted of pine resin and old stone, carrying with it a nostalgic touch that brushed against Torghan’s soul.
Eight years.
When he had left these peaks as a young man, he had believed this horizon was the edge of the world. Now, returning with the weight of adulthood and the scars of a warrior, he realized just how small these mountains truly were. In his ti as Chieftain of the Voghondai, Torghan had undergone a transformation more profound than any battle could offer.
He had mastered the Southern tongue, learned the sorcery of reading and writing, and imrsed himself in the cold wealth of history. He saw the world now not through the eyes of a tribesman, but through the eyes of a better man.
He stepped onto a thick bear-skin carpet, his boots sinking into the fur. He paused, testing his own heart, did the knowledge of his people’s encroaching servitude bother him?
It did not.
He had seen the "Golden Lands." He had walked the marble halls of Yarzat and tasted the prosperity of a civilization that did not have to beg the earth for every scrap of grain. If the price for bringing that warmth to these jagged peaks was the crown’s influence, it was a bargain he would strike a thousand tis over. They would not be slaves; they would be the vanguard of a new era, elevated from scavengers to the masters of the mountain under Alpheo’s shadow.
Besides, the boy who had fled these lands was dead. Torghan was no longer rely a Chorsi. He was a servant of the Crown, a man who had built a life of glory, respect, and power in the East. His sister was married, he was an uncle, and his loyalties were etched in iron.
He had a duty to perform. He hoped his father would see the reason in the wind, but if Varaku remained stubborn, Torghan was prepared to break him. He was a man of Yarzat first, and a son second.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps, steps Torghan had subconsciously feared and respected his entire life, echoed against the wooden walls of his old childhood ho....
"I admit I have been away for a ti... yet I did not expect to find ho so utterly transford," Torghan said, his back still turned to the door. He stared up at the massive stag’s head mounted on the wall, he recalled the beast being bigger. "The DuskWindai are broken. Our tribe is no longer starving. We are even planting the crops the Prince was kind enough to provide. It is quite the change."
"I could say the sa of you, son."
The voice of Varaku was like a rockslide. It vibrated in the small room, thick with the weight of years. "I was told of your feats across the sea. I was told of your power. I did not expect my boy to return as a chieftain."
"I was simply granted an opportunity by the man I am sworn to," Torghan replied, turning slowly to face the man who had sired him.
Silence fell between them. Father t son; son t father. Ti had been a cruel sculptor to Varaku’s visage; lines now mapped a face that had once been rely hard. Yet, Torghan knew he was no mirror of his youth either. He watched his father’s eyes trace the long, ugly scar that started at Torghan’s forehead and sliced down his cheek, a souvenir from a Rolian blade during the breaking of the Rock, he had been lucky enough to cross blades alongside Puka Sinka himself.
That was a day!Blood on every inch of stone where the eye deigned to look, everyone out to get them, your back to your brothers, your front to your foe... the screams of the dead as a chorus for their steel dance, reaping fruit after fruit with each move. A smile blood on his face before he rembered where he was.
To Torghan’s surprise, there was no apathy in his father’s gaze. There was respect. A grim, silent acknowledgnt of a predator recognizing another of his kind.
"How is Maraya?" Varaku asked, the question sounding brittle in the quiet room.
"She is well. She is soon to beco a mother," Torghan said.
That finally broke Varaku’s stoicism. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine, human warmth softening his rugged features. A small, rare smile touched his lips.Where was that warmth when he was a boy? he wondered.
"A mother... and her husband? Is he a match worthy of her grit?"
Torghan felt a surge of fierce pride. He smirked as he replied, wanting to praise the n he was honored to call brother. "He is a lion of a man. A wealthy warrior of imnse standing, and the right hand of the Prince of Yarzat himself. I believe I found her a match that exceeds even your biggest expectations. As a matter of fact..."
Torghan paused, the weight of the mont settling. "He is here with us, he is the commander of the n of iron you saw. I asked him for a few minutes to speak with you alone, and he was kind enough to grant it.
Still...he may favor , but I am not sure how wise it is to make a commander such as him wait for so long, so I’d say we ought to make haste of our business..."
"I was trying to find the proper mont to ask you," Varaku began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. Torghan watched him, unsettled. For his entire life, his father had been the epito of unshakeable sureness, a man carved from the very granite of the peaks. To see him now, standing ekly in the shadow of his own son, was that the terror that the First Legion inspired?
No man, no matter how brave, enjoyed seeing a thousand disciplined killers camped on his doorstep.
"For what reason are you here now?" Varaku asked, his eyes darting toward the window where the sunset glinted off Yarzat steel in the valley below. "In these conditions... with such n at your back?"
"Have you grown untrusting of our friends across the sea?" Torghan’s voice was like a lash. He threw his father a look of cold, unrelenting hardness, the sa look Varaku had used to discipline him as a boy. There was a certain pleasure in the reversal.
"I... I did not an it so," Varaku replied, visibly recoiling from the harshness in his son’s tone.
"It sounded exactly so," Torghan countered, stepping into his father’s personal space. "Must I remind you of the debt? Who was it that brought grain when our children’s ribs were counting the days to death? Who provided the steel that finally tasted DuskWindai blood and won back these hills? Who gave us the seed for the plants that now thrive in dirt where not even a weed would take root? You speak as if we are being visited by strangers."
"I am thankful!" Varaku snapped, his old fire flickering for a brief second. "I will always be their ally, Torghan. But I do not understand the necessity of an invasion force for a social call. What is the problem?"
"The problem," Torghan said, leaning in until his scarred face was inches from his father’s, "is that you do not see the rot in your own flesh. You wonder why they are here? It is because the Prince of Yarzat is displeased with how the business of these mountains is being conducted."
The color drained from Varaku’s face. To lose the favor of the outsider was to lose everything he had. "How can that be?" he stamred, the fear of the withdrawing support rising . "I have done all that was asked! I defeated the usurpers of our hills. I exchanged every prisoner for trade goods as instructed. I have spent my blood forming a coalition of tribes to secure n. What have I done to incur his wrath? If it is about the lack of recent prisoners, it is not my failing! The horse-n, the ones who are not Azanians yet fight like devils, they intercept our raiding parties before we can even strike.We lost dozens of n on such missions."
Torghan let the silence hang for a mont, letting his father’s desperation thicken the air.
"Your worries regarding the horsen were taken into consideration by the Prince," Torghan said, his voice softening just enough to offer a sliver of hope. "He knows the difficulties you face.He is not overbearing with his friends, he recognizes the problems are not yours, of course.
But you misunderstand the nature of his displeasure, Father. It is not so much about what you have done. It is about what the others have dared to do. It is about the insolence of the tribes you call ’allies’. The Prince is tired of playing the rchant; he believes it ti to let people know the face behind the steel." As he looked as his father’s worried expression, a tang of simpathy rose in him.
Would mother approve of what he was doing?Would she watch him now, what expression would she have?
He shook his head and steeled himself, he had already knew how things stood.Why make a ss of it now?
’’The choice has been made, Father; even if I or my brother-in-law decided to turn ho, we could not. Stop thinking of how unjust this is and instead try to mitigate the consequences for the mistakes that were made that have called for such action. My prince’s favor does not co unconditional if you are not up for it, other n will. Always rember that when dealing with outsiders, I always hope for the best of our people.’’
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