Excerpt 17.5

  (Page 5, Section 1)

  The chieftain returned from the battlefield, bloodied beyond recognition, his once-mighty spear damaged—a sight none of us had ever thought possible from a warrior of his legend. But his opponent had been Veyragon the Frozen Tyrant, the doom that even the world seemed to fear.

  We welcomed him back with cheers and celebration, voices raised high in the frozen air, our hearts daring to hope. But that hope soon curdled into dread. His words struck like a hammer against the soul: the beast had escaped. It had vanished into the unknown, its wounds likely mending in some forsaken abyss, biding its time.

  And then, as if to seal the omen, our greatest chieftain collapsed where he stood, his strength spent carrying back his final warning. Horror spread through us like wildfire. Some among us spoke of fleeing beyond the edges of the world, seeking lands untouched by the beast’s shadow. Others, burning with reckless pride, dreamed of tracking it down, of facing it anew. And some, mad or blind with ambition, plotted to seize the broken lands for themselves, as if soil steeped in death could bring anything but ruin.

  The tribe fractured, scattering like ash before a storm. Once unified, the zamongarai people splintered into warring clans, and with time, many forgot the terror that had shattered us.

  But we have not forgotten.

  Nor shall we ever forget.

  This legacy, this warning, will be carved into the marrow of our bloodlines, whispered to every child born with the gift. We will speak of the beast—of the grave it has not yet filled, and of the silence it leaves in its wake. And when the winter spirits fall silent, when the icy storms rise and lay waste to all they touch, it will be the final proof that Veyragon has risen once more.

  REMEMBER. DO NOT FORGET.

  Source: The Long Silence – Shaman Serbale

  Excerpt 17.5 End

  Point of View Change (Caregiver)

  Animora stood frozen long after her uncle Bharzun left the tent, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. The hide walls, usually sheltering and warm, now seemed to press inward, heavy with the words he had left behind.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Veyragon...

  The name clung to her thoughts like a splinter. Ancient terror stirred in the marrow of her bones, half-forgotten stories resurfacing.

  Could it truly be real? Could the Frost Tyrant endure, hidden beneath the scars of the world, and stir once more?

  She forced herself to look away from the empty tent entrance and turned her gaze toward her nephew, stirring again in strange, restless movements — the boy who had changed so much over the past five weeks, and grown even more unrecognizable today.

  Now his frame had thickened even more, muscle growing like wildfire under his skin, his horns nearly forming. His breath, once small and weak, now steamed the air like that of a young beast ready to break free.

  And yet it was not only his body that troubled her.

  The winter storm that had battered them for five restless weeks flashed back in her mind — an unnatural, raging force that had taken everything to survive. Five weeks of biting winds that pushed against their barrier, five weeks of ice trying to strangle life itself.

  She remembered how her limbs had ached from maintaining the protective ward, how her vision had blurred more than once from sheer exhaustion. Each gust of wind had clawed at their shield with a hatred that felt alive, and she had poured every drop of her strength into keeping it from collapsing. By the final week, even drawing breath had felt like a battle. It hadn’t just been cold — it had been war. Energy is not endless, and neither was her strength of will.

  And that storm... that unnatural storm... had only grown stronger with each passing year.

  What would happen when the next storm came?

  If Veyragon had indeed awakened, no barrier, no warrior, no one would save them.

  She exhaled shakily, brushing the fur from the boy’s forehead.

  No tears, she reminded herself again. Not even when Bharzun had put him through harsh examinations — measuring his energy, digging mercilessly for any sign of corruption.

  Others would have wept. Others would have screamed.

  But her nephew had endured it all in silence.

  Bharzun had been almost unnerved by the readings.

  The boy’s vireth energy flowed like a beacon of pure, untouched power.

  Furthermore, his neurotha energy was stronger than any zamongarai Bharzun had ever seen — stronger even than many of the gifted — and there was no mark of corruption, no sign of possession.

  His energy was not merely untouched — it surged as if no corruption had ever dared come near it.

  She closed her eyes, remembering Bharzun’s fury when he had learned the boy had been soul-read by a warlock.

  He had nearly gone to tear apart the chieftain's tent, ready to rip the fool apart for endangering what he called their last hope.

  Only her frantic pleas had stopped him.

  Nothing had happened, she had sworn. No harm had been done.

  But even then, she could see the barely-restrained storm behind Bharzun’s eyes — the raw terror of losing something so precious, something that might be their only salvation against Veyragon's return.

  Hope — fragile, uncertain, burning inside her like a small, desperate flame.

  Tomorrow, she would go see Rokface.

  She already knew the answer she would find — Rokface would demand the boy be trained as a warrior, no matter what talents stirred within him. That path would not be questioned. It never was.

  But even warriors needed more than muscle and rage. They needed sight.

  And she would make Rokface understand — whether he liked it or not.

  Their nephew had the gift.

  A gift that could be a blade... or a beacon.

  Soon, she would have to return to her duties as chief advisor. Everyone had been begging for her return — well, not everyone, but enough.

  And her nephew...

  Anyone who dared to reach for him again would not live to regret it.