Ever since Banon had woken up from his vision, he felt as if his awareness of the living things around him was more keen. There wasn’t a better way than that to describe it. He just felt… more connected. Now that the effects of whatever the shaman and spirit women had used on him had time to wear off, he was even more sure of it.

  Something had changed.

  Every living thing around him had a kind of extra light coming from it. Or… light was wrong. But so was scent, hearing, touch. It wasn’t a sensory experience he was used to, but it was there. And as far as he could tell, it was not going away any time soon.

  If anything, it was only getting stronger.

  Here, in the sprawling chamber of rites, packed with Ooura and Pyathen alike, his new sense of life was practically screaming at him.

  The Pyathen were all tucked into one end of the massive, tube-shaped chamber, their princess positioned prominently at a large table spread that had been setup specifically for her and only her. Her guards and torch bearers were formed up in a half circle behind her, not actively beading their crossbows on anyone, but holding them close at the ready. At the other end of the chamber, emperor Poh was sat highest on a throne made from Ooura bones, while his elders were lined up beneath him. Yet another level down from the elders, a dozen Kothai and two dozen spirit women were sat in front of huge drums accompanied by stone slabs on either side, waiting for the signal to begin. Taking up the majority of the space in the middle section of the chamber, the eighteen year old boys who had downed and brought back Orux were seated cross legged all over the floor, each of them attended by three unmarried girls from their respective tribes.

  Banon was sat central among them, and just as he suspected, one of the two girls picked to aid him in this ceremony was Iala, a few years Banon’s junior and daughter of Icola–who was one of the oldest spirit women, and who had saved more lives during wartime than perhaps anyone alive. The other was Goija, a woman a few years older than him, chosen likely for her striking size and the fact her father was a renowned Kothai, known best for being Poh’s most vicious battlefield leader–besides Tema–during the quashing of Dorse of Ain’s rebellion. The third, he honestly did not recognize, though she was also the one who he noticed reacting to his presence most intensely. Unlike the other two, she glanced frequently and poorly hid it, and shifted uncomfortably every other moment. She looked closest to his own age, and had surprisingly short hair for a woman.

  As had happened several times during the wait for the ceremony to commence, Banon found himself glancing up to Tema. The man may as well have had his own personal storm cloud hanging over him. He was hunching where he sat alongside the other elders at the head of the chamber, twitchy, eyes frequently sending glares towards the Pyathen. His lips were curled back, showing a sliver of yellowing teeth.

  “Why hasn’t the ceremony started yet?” Iala asked from beside him. Her voice was surprisingly full for her age, lacking the usual girlish peaks.

  “Do not speak,” Goija whispered impatiently, eyes slightly too wide, shoulder’s tighter than wound cord, exuding diligence. “This is the most important moment of your life. I would think the daughter of a healer and a shaman would understand the importance of proper adherence to ceremony,” she said with an awe-filled tone, as if she was revelling in the act of waiting alone.

  Banon frowned, feeling that something more than mere propriety was off. After gazing around the room, he realized there was a space where three women were sitting, but lacking a man there to attend. “Never attribute intention to what can be explained by unexpected turns of fate,” he said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Goija asked.

  Banon nodded towards the gap. “Haeran is missing. They are probably waiting for him.”

  “They would hold up the entire ceremony for one?” the one who Banon did not know asked.

  “He is son of an elder,” Banon replied. “And… his circumstances are somewhat special.”

  Goija hissed unhappily. “Special circumstances?” Apparently her convictions about propriety did not go so far as she had implied.

  “I heard it was quite the contest,” Iala said, though there was an oddly morose tone to her voice Banon did not understand, until he realized that she had certainly been there to see the spirit women attending Haeran’s injuries. From the state Banon remembered leaving the other boy's face, he doubted any part of that healing process had been pleasant, and certainly Haeran would not be done healing entirely for weeks, if not months.

  “I saw it. It wasn’t much of a fair contest,” Goija replied.

  “Fighting is not about fair contests,” Banon replied,. “Ask your father. He has seen the difference better than any between battlefields before the Pyathen had their weapons of science, and after. If he still clings to notions of fairness and honor on battlefields that no longer have any, he is part of the problem, not the solution.”

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  Silence.

  Perhaps Banon could have applied more tact than that…

  He pressed his eyes shut briefly and then opened them back up, resisting the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. These last few days really had taken quite the toll on him. He was beyond exhausted. “I apologize,” he said quietly. “This is no time for such discussions.”

  “You need make none. I have stated my opinion. You have stated yours.” Goija’s voice remained even and her back straight. Perhaps she was due more credit than Banon gave her.

  Iala tilted her head in acknowledgement of the surprisingly amicable end to the argument, though the third girl was stewing uncomfortably where she sat, fidgeting almost worse than Lonka.

  The sound of heavy footsteps at the front of the chamber broke him out of his reflections. There, walking alongside the rows of drums and the Ooura waiting to play them, was Haeran. When he reached the center of the chamber, he stopped, nodded to his father and then quietly resumed walking over to his attendants. Before he sat down, Banon got a good look at his face. It was so thoroughly covered in salves only one eye was visible, and Haeran appeared he was forced to breathe solely from his mouth. Just as he went down to sit, his one visible eye met Banon’s, and it was filled with predictable hatred.

  Even without being able to see most of his face, Banon could tell Haeran was still deeply subdued by the spirit women’s healing substances. His shoulders were too relaxed, his head subtly swaying, and the three women with him had expressions that reflected worry for his state. They must have given him something stronger than they gave Banon if it was still affecting Haeran so overtly. Then again, perhaps some of that could be explained by simple pain.

  A flicker of sympathy crossed Banon’s mind before he quashed it. Haeran had been the aggressor, and the one who sought to turn the opportunity of a lifetime, a meeting of peoples, into a petty dominance game. Still, Banon blamed Tema more than Haeran himself. The elder was doubtlessly the one who had orchestrated the plot, even if it had been his son who carried it out.

  Without further waiting, the sound of war filled the air.

  The male Kothai beat the huge, hide drums in perfect synchronicity with one another with long batons they held in each hand, creating a sound like the booming of a single, colossal, beating heart. The women beside them raised and lowered clusters of bamboo pieces onto the stone slabs, creating a wash of tinkling that resembled the rush of blood pushed through the veins.

  In the not so distant past, before the Pyathens new reign of dominance, Ooura had been bold enough to announce their presence in every battle this way. They would line up in a shield wall. Then, they would march, holding their Mew bark great shields toward the enemy, taking each lunging step in time with each beat of the drum. Slowly, but surely, they would surround and suffocate their enemy, and then finish them off with staff strikes from the gaps.

  It was the song of centuries. A song that had all but been snuffed out. Now, it was only a trick for the festivals. The sight of an Ooura shield wall marching on Pyathen and winning was only a memory, despite the delusional urge of some to hold onto a tradition that no longer worked. Banon glanced at Tema, gritting his teeth as he remembered the bargain he had struck with the elders only the evening before. If he could not successfully trick the princess into eating the flesh of the dragon eagle, and more, bargain from her what he needed to ascend the spire, Tema and Haeran would be permitted to lead a force that would attempt to stop the Pyathen from returning home, and they would do it the old way, the way that would only result in more unnecessary death.

  He steadied himself, forcing his breathing to come more evenly. Someday, there would be a time to bring back the shield wall on the open field of battle, but not yet, not until the Ooura had an answer to the acid, a new tactic or weapon that would level the playing field, or even flip the advantage entirely. A shield wall had its place, but not without a new series of supporting weapons to counter the Pyathens’, ones Banon intended to be responsible for ushering in. The threat of their acid weapons had simply proved too potent a threat for too long to continue as they always had. Any among them that could not see that yet, after losing so many brothers in battle to it, were doomed to die for the sake of nothing but a false idea that there was a right and wrong way to wage battle.

  If there was one thing Banon had to credit his enemies for–something starkly overlooked by his elders–it was the rabid pursuit to the inth degree of something. It was singular achievements that had changed their entire reality in regards to the effectiveness of battle.

  The Pyathen had found success by exploring so thoroughly their method of “science” until they had discovered its peak in the form of their acid recipes. Banon had the exact same plan, only he would explore the limits of other avenues, ones even the Pyathen could not hope to tame.

  Ones only available to those who cast their ambition deep into the reaches of the jungle where even Ooura feared to visit.

  But first, what he and his people needed was room to breathe, room to focus on inventing new ways to succeed instead of barely holding onto survival. And so, with the weight of mountains on his shoulders and the eyes of many on him, Banon resolved that this princess would not leave until she had agreed to his terms. For if he could capture her from her spire without throwing more Ooura lives away, he could hold a bargaining chip that would buy him exactly the time and space he needed to enact the next stage of his plans.

  The drum beat came to an end, though the bamboo tinkling continued on, barely loud enough to be heard, filling the chamber with an ambience of anticipation. Next, shamans entered the chamber trailing smoke from burning incense and carrying wicker cages that buzzed loudly thanks to the huge, flying insects trapped inside. The night wasps, glowing a vibrant yellow, were each the size of a closed fist, though somewhat more elongated. Their long, black stingers frequently poked through the wicker, searching desperately for flesh to puncture.

  “And so,” Poh called from his throne at the head of the chamber, “the second stage of the rite begins!”