"The warriors train, the settlements establish evacuation routes, and you—" she looked at Jorghan pointedly, "—you practice control. Power without discipline is just destruction waiting to happen."

"I can do discipline," Jorghan protested.

Both Sarhita and Katisana gave him identical skeptical looks.

"I can! When it matters!"

"You destroyed three dropships after the battle was already over," Sarhita pointed out.

"That wasn't discipline. That was revenge."

"That was sending a message," Jorghan corrected.

"There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Revenge feels good. Sending a message is strategic."

"And which one were you doing?"

Jorghan's grin returned, sharp and dangerous. "Both. I'm excellent at multitasking."

Sarhita looked at Katisana helplessly. "Do you see what I have to work with?"

The elder smiled slightly, the expression making her seem younger despite her centuries. "I see a young man with tremendous power and questionable impulse control who nonetheless genuinely cares about protecting others. It could be worse."

"How?" Sarhita demanded.

"He could be working for the Empire instead of against them," Katisana said simply.

That sobering thought settled over the tent like a chill.

Jorghan, with his abilities, serving the Empire's agenda instead of opposing it—the damage would be catastrophic.

"Well," Jorghan said after a moment, "lucky for you I'm on your side then."

"Lucky indeed," Katisana agreed.

"Now, shall we get into the interesting part where we remove our clothes? Or are we going to continue debating Jorghan's ego for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Can we do both?" Sarhita asked.

"Because I have a lot more to say about his ego."

"And I have a lot more to say about how amazing I am," Jorghan added.

"This could take hours."

Despite the tension, despite the looming threat of the Empire and the Half breeds and everything else, all three of them smiled.

Sometimes, in the face of overwhelming darkness, all you could do was laugh and keep moving forward.

The battle was coming. The Empire was hunting them. Death waited in the desert sands.

But for now, in this moment, they were alive, together, and ready to fight.

And really, what more could warriors ask for?

Family Tensions

Sigora's Residence - Late Afternoon

Jorghan pushed through the entrance of Sigora's home, a structure that combined traditional brown elf architecture with practical desert adaptations. The main room was empty, unusually quiet for a household that typically bustled with activity.

After his intense session with the two ladies of the Nuwe'rak clan, Jorghan had come to meet his aunt. As he wanted to ask her about the meetings.

"Mother?" he called out, moving through the space.

No response.

He looked all over the house and called for his cousins too; there seemed to be no response.

Scarlett had been staying with Grace, who was now living on the Nor'vack clan's settlement. She hadn't uttered a single word since Jorghan last spoke—since the moment his words had struck her to the core and left her shaken.

And Jorghan too; he just let her be, as he had a lot to deal with right now.

He walked toward the back of the house, where he knew the private hot springs were located—a luxury afforded by the floating island's unique geothermal properties.

The Nor'vack clan had always been resourceful, using the natural hot water that bubbled up from beneath the mountains.

The floating island, the Turtlerock, was a large and colossal mass of land with mountains and water present all over the island. It was a mystical and magnificent creation of the Nor'vack clan to ever exist in the world and nothing had come close to such wonder till now.

The Turtlerock was the pride of the Nor'vack clan.

As he rounded the corner to the springs area, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sigora was there, reclining in the steaming water with her eyes closed, completely relaxed. Her massive frame—she stood nearly eight feet tall—was partially submerged, but enough was visible to make Jorghan's brain temporarily stop functioning.

Brown elves were naturally more robust than the red elves, built for strength and endurance rather than speed and agility. And Sigora embodied that physique perfectly. Her shoulders were broad, her arms thick with muscle from decades of combat and leadership. But it was her curves that commanded attention—the kind of figure that defied the lean, athletic builds common among other elf types.

Her hips were wide, designed for the physical demands of bearing children in a warrior culture. Her thighs were powerful, capable of crushing stone or carrying her weight through extended combat without fatigue.

And her chest—Jorghan's eyes involuntarily tracked there before he forced himself to look away—was proportionate to her massive frame, full and heavy in a way that spoke to the fundamental difference between brown elf physiology and everything else.

She was thicc in the way that suggested power rather than softness, every curve backed by dense muscle, yet undeniably feminine in a way that made Jorghan acutely aware that he was staring at his aunt, his mother.

Her skin was that characteristic deep brown, like rich soil, marked with the faint scars of a lifetime of battle. Her hair, normally kept in practical braids, floated loose in the water, dark brown streaked with hints of grey that spoke to her age—she was several hundred years old, though she moved like someone half that.

Sigora's eyes opened, golden and sharp, and she smiled when she saw him standing there frozen.

"Jorghan! Don't just stand there like a statue; come join me.

The water is perfect."

"I, uh—" Jorghan cleared his throat, trying to restart his higher brain functions.

"I was just looking for you."

"And you found me," Sigora said with amusement.

"Now stop being awkward and get in the water. We need to talk about the meeting anyway."

"I'm not being awkward," Jorghan protested, though he was absolutely being awkward.

"You are. It's adorable." Sigora's smile widened, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

"Do you remember when you were little? You used to be so embarrassed about bathing with me. You'd turn bright red and refuse to look at me."

"I was 10," Jorghan muttered, starting to remove his outer clothing.

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