The hut-like structure that served as Sigora's residence was massive—it had to be, given that she regularly hosted clan leaders and distinguished warriors. The main living space was easily forty feet across, with a high-vaulted ceiling that rose nearly twenty feet at its apex. Woven panels of dried palm and carefully treated animal hides formed the walls, allowing just enough filtered sunlight to create a comfortable amber glow throughout the interior. Multiple doorways led to various rooms—sleeping quarters, a personal war room, storage, bathing chambers—creating a complex warren that had taken Jorghan several days to fully map in his mind.

She had built her residence after she arrived in the Nor'vack clan.

It had been several days since the devastating battle had ended. The fields once filled with thunderous roars and magic now lie silent, a scar upon the land. The smoke had long cleared, but its memory lingered in the air like a ghost refusing to depart.

The clans had withdrawn without a word, their banners lowered, their pride muted. Not a single one dared to raise their voice or question the outcome. Fear, awe, and disbelief had sealed their tongues.

A patriarch of one of the Twelve Clans had fallen—slain before the eyes of all. And yet, none spoke of vengeance. None dared to utter the name of the one responsible, as if saying it aloud would invite doom itself.

And in fact, some of the clan elders came and greeted Jorghan and gave their respects, treating him as their equal.

There was quite a debate about him in the clans, but none of them reached Jorghan, as he was now relaxing in his mother's place, which was on the top of a mountain on the Turtlerock.

Yes, the Turtlerock of the Nor'vack clan had arrived after Sigora had come. She brought the whole floating island, the mammoth turtle, to the desert.

This evening, they'd gathered in what Sigora called the Hearth Room.

It wasn't the grandest space in the dwelling, but it was the most comfortable.

A fire pit sat at the center, carefully managed so as not to overheat the interior, surrounded by cushioned seating arranged in a loose semicircle. Low tables held platters of food and drinks—dried fruits, fresh bread, roasted meat, and several varieties of the bitter desert teas that seemed to sustain the brown elves.

Jorghan sat on one end of the arrangement, his six-foot frame making him look almost fragile compared to the brown elves around him. His back was straight, but there was a looseness to his posture that suggested he was beginning to relax in this space.

A week of living under Sigora's roof, eating her food, and participating in these casual gatherings had started to wear down some of the tension that had defined him in the immediate aftermath of the battle.

Sigora occupied the position of prominence—not by deliberate arrangement, but simply because her presence naturally commanded that space. Her brown skin marked with ceremonial tattoos that seemed to glow in the firelight. Tonight she wore simple clothing: loose linen pants and a sleeveless tunic that showed the full extent of her musculature. She was reviewing a piece of parchment, making notes with a stylus, but her attention wasn't so fixed that she was unaware of everything happening around her.

Scarlett had positioned herself across from Jorghan, her small frame seeming to fold with a simple grace into the cushioned seating.

She looked so mutely at ease, her green eyes flickering with intelligence and curiosity as she observed the room. She was watching the brown elves with the fascination of a child.

Swana had claimed the cushion nearest the food tables, which seemed to be her preferred location regardless of where the group gathered.

Her laughter came easily and often, and she seemed to find genuine amusement in situations that others treated with grave seriousness.

Ski'ra sat slightly apart from the others, positioned between Swana and the edge of the gathering, as if maintaining a subtle distance was necessary for his comfort.

The tall brown elf was a study in contrasts—his frame suggested he'd once been a formidable warrior, standing nearly eight feet with a build that spoke of decades of training.

But there was something diminished about him now, a quality that went beyond the physical. His manalessness seemed to have carved away part of his presence, leaving behind something that was less visible than his peers despite his considerable height.

He didn't speak often, but when he did, people listened.

And then there was Sarhita.

The Nuwe'rak princess occupied a position that was ambiguous—she was part of the group, clearly, but there was still a formality to her presence that suggested she hadn't entirely shed her diplomatic role. Her liquid gold eyes were luminous in the firelight, and the intricate tattoos that covered her face and arms seemed to shift and change as she moved.

She'd spent the past week observing, learning the rhythms of Nor'vack clan life, and Jorghan suspected that she was trying to become part of their family.

Seeing her efforts, a smile crept up his face.

"So I've been meaning to ask," Sarhita said around a mouthful of her constructed meal, "what exactly happened three years ago? With Ski'ra, I mean. Swana keeps alluding to it like it's this huge traumatic event, but nobody actually explains it."

The room went quiet in that particular way that happened when someone asked a question that everyone had been thinking but no one wanted to speak about.

Ski'ra set down his tea with deliberate care.

When he spoke, his voice was rough—not from disuse, but from the sound of someone who'd had to rebuild their vocal patterns after some kind of trauma. "I was overconfident. That's the short version."

"The long version," Swana said without looking away from the fire, "is considerably more complicated."

The details aren't particularly edifying. What matters is that Ski'ra lost access to his mana pathways as a result of the encounter. It was either that or lose his life. He chose wisely."

Jorghan looked at Sik'ra, thinking that he should have saved him back then. Even though he knew that thinking about the past changes nothing.

People are simple beings; it's a habit of thinking in such ways.

He picked his tea back up, taking a careful sip. "Everything is muted. Every experience is filtered through the absence of something that was once central to my identity."

Sarhita had the grace to look uncomfortable. "That sounds genuinely awful. I'm sorry for asking, actually."

"Don't be," Ski'ra said, and something in his tone suggested he might actually mean it.

"It's a fair question. And the truth is, if I'd had the choice to make again, I might still make the same decision. Death is final. At least this way, I'm still here. Still part of the Nor'vack. Still have the possibility of... something. Even if that something is undefined."

Sarhita set down her cup carefully. "The Nuwe'rak would have executed you. Or exiled you. Neither the Nor'vack nor the Nuwe'rak have strong traditions of accommodating manaless individuals. It reflects poorly on the clan's perceived strength."

"That's barbaric," Swana said flatly.

"That's politics," Sarhita corrected, but there was no judgment in her tone—just a simple statement of fact.

"Individual circumstances are secondary to collective perception. What matters is what the clans present to the world."

Jorghan had been quiet through most of this exchange, listening more than speaking.

He'd learned in his time with the Nor'vack that silence often revealed more than words.

But now he found himself asking, "Why are you telling me this? All of it. The political implications, the clan dynamics, the reasons behind why certain decisions were made."

Sigora looked up from her parchment, and her expression suggested she'd been waiting for this question.

"Because you need to understand how the clans function. You need to understand that decisions aren't made in isolation, and that the aftermath of every choice ripples outward in ways that aren't always immediately visible.

When you killed El'ran, you didn't just kill a patriarch. You altered the political landscape of every clan that witnessed it."

"And the power balance of the twelve clans with it."

"The Nue'roka wanted revenge," Sarhita interjected, "but they calculated that the cost would be prohibitive. El'ran's death is a loss for them, certainly. But starting a war with someone who can bisect a seven-hundred-year-old patriarch in a single strike would be... economically unsound."

"That's a diplomatic way of saying suicidal," Swana said.

She'd abandoned her meal construction project in favor of focusing on the conversation.

"You're all basically admitting that the world's power structure just shifted because Jorghan demonstrated he could end one of the strongest beings alive."

"Yes," Sarhita confirmed.

"Though not in the way you might think. Jorghan didn't gain power through defeating El'ran. He demonstrated that power was already his. The difference is subtle but significant. Before the battle, the clans could speculate about his potential. After the battle, they know his capability. That knowledge changes negotiating positions."

"So what does that mean for me?" Jorghan asked.

"Practically speaking. What changes about my day-to-day existence?"

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