The air in the stone-root hall thickened with every passing second.

  Wood creaked beneath restless feet. Low mutters tangled like weeds across the chamber. Hands pointed. Voices clashed.

  And Kaelen stood still.

  In the center of the spiral table among the twelve elders, he waited—not with the unease of a child being scolded, but with the rigid stillness of someone watching a blade balance on edge.

  “…he’s just a boy!” spat Elder Koriv, pounding the table with a calloused fist. “You’ve all lost your senses!”

  “Not a boy,” countered Elder Denor from the south district. “He’s the one who faced the Kors and led our sons home!”

  “And now you want to arm farmers and children? You’d turn our gardens into battlegrounds?”

  “Better to hold a spear than be buried by one!” another snapped.

  “We are Ederon!” barked Mira, her braid swaying as she stood. “Not Kors, not Men—this is not our way!”

  “Then what is our way, Mira?” Denor shot back. “Waiting to be discovered again?”

  “ENOUGH!”

  The voice cut like a whip.

  Not loud—but sharp. Steeled with command.

  Elder Nayla had risen from her seat at the head of the table, her carved staff braced like a third leg, her silver-threaded braid coiled tightly behind her shoulders.

  “Enough,” she said again, softer now. “You bicker like barkhounds, and no wisdom grows from noise.”

  The chamber stilled.

  Elder Koriv grunted but sat down.

  Others followed.

  Nayla walked slowly to Kaelen’s side and placed one hand gently on the table, as if anchoring the discussion.

  “We are divided,” she said, looking around. “And division invites weakness. That is not a judgment—it is a truth.”

  She turned to Kaelen, then back to the gathered council.

  “So, we will proceed with order. No more shouting. No more drowning one another out.”

  She gestured toward the table.

  “Those who are not in favor of Kaelen’s plan—you will be given time to speak. You may ask your questions. Raise your doubts. Argue your cause for remaining as we were.”

  Koriv straightened in his seat. Mira nodded sharply.

  Nayla continued, “And those in favor of Kaelen’s path—defense, training, preparation—you will listen. And when your time comes, you will answer. You will ask your own questions.”

  Then her eyes settled back on Kaelen.

  “You, Kaelen, will answer them. Not like a commander, not like a prophet. But as one of us. Do you understand?”

  Kaelen nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Nayla’s eyes lingered on him a second longer, as if searching for cracks—but found none.

  Then she turned back to the chamber. “Does anyone here object to this structure?”

  Denor raised a hand. “So long as both sides speak equally.”

  “They will,” Nayla said.

  Mira stood. “And the boy will answer plainly? Not in riddles or metaphors?”

  Kaelen’s lips curved just slightly.

  “You have my word,” he said. “Ask what you like.”

  Mira sat.

  Koriv shifted, eyes sharp on Kaelen. “Then I’ll begin,” he said, the growl still in his voice. “But don’t expect kindness in my words, boy.”

  Kaelen held his gaze.

  “I’m not here for kindness,” he said. “I’m here for the truth.”

  The silence that followed was brief—but heavy.

  The air was cooler now, thick with silence between the wooden walls of the council hall. The torches hissed in their brackets, casting long shadows across aged faces.

  Elder Koriv leaned forward, elbows on the table, brow furrowed deep like bark under weight.

  “If we choose this path,” he said, voice level but edged, “if we train to fight... do you understand what that does to us?” His hand rose, fingers splayed as if catching rain. “We are not warriors, Kaelen. We are growers. Binders. Healers. You say war is coming—but war is not our way. And if we become like those who seek to burn us... then what are we defending, truly?”

  A low murmur stirred behind him—nodding from Mira, a frown from Elder Verin of the Iron Weavers.

  Kaelen didn’t speak right away.

  He let the words settle.

  Then, steady and sure, he answered.

  “Choosing to defend your home does not make you a warmonger,” he said. “Learning to fight does not make you bloodthirsty.”

  He looked at Koriv directly.

  “I do not raise warriors to kill. I raise defenders. To protect what is ours. Our fields. Our mothers. Our children.”

  He let that hang.

  “I will never teach a child to hate. But I will teach them how not to die with their hands empty.”

  Mira frowned, leaning slightly forward. “And what will happen to the soul of the village?” she asked. “You put blades in our fields, armor over our hearts. We were meant for peace.”

  Kaelen turned slightly, addressing her without sharpness—only resolve.

  “Then let us defend that peace with all we have,” he said. “Because it will not survive on hope alone.”

  Another voice rose, this time from Elder Rusan, old and soft-spoken, the keeper of the herb quarter. His eyes were tired, but alert.

  “And if we do lean into this path,” he said, “this training you speak of—what comes after? What is the plan?” He gestured broadly. “What? We drill our people with blades, and then what? We wait for another attack? We become a militia? What world are you leading us into, boy?”

  Kaelen met his gaze.

  Calmly.

  “There is no single world I can lead us into,” he replied. “Only the one that is coming—whether we choose it or not.”

  He straightened.

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  “We prepare. Not just to fight, but to endure. We train scouts, messengers, sentries. We learn signals, evacuations, fallback positions. We begin to understand our land not as a shelter, but as a shield.”

  He stepped slightly toward the edge of the table.

  “Every war ends. But only the prepared still stand when it does.”

  Silence.

  Then—one voice spoke.

  “I believe the boy.”

  It was Elder Denor.

  He stood slowly, hands behind his back, sharp-eyed and young by elder standards.

  “I fought Kors before. Not with a sword—but with wit. I’ve seen what happens to villages that wait too long.”

  He looked at the rest of the table.

  “I was skeptical. But I heard his answers. And I’ve watched his actions. He doesn’t ask to raise an army. He asks to teach resilience.”

  Silence followed Elder Denor’s words. It clung to the walls like smoke, unspoken and electric.

  “I’ll give you ten of my foragers,” he said again, with more strength now. “If they’re willing, they’ll train under you.”

  Kaelen gave a respectful nod, but said nothing more.

  Then another voice rose.

  “I’ll give five.”

  Elder Taval, the hunched lorekeeper, pushed himself slowly to his feet. His joints cracked as he stood, but his voice was sure.

  “Herbalists can track through fog better than most hunters. They know terrain. They understand survival. Let them learn more than roots and remedies.”

  He looked Kaelen in the eye. “And if even half return sharper than before, then you’ve done more for them than I ever could.”

  A few murmurs stirred from the other end of the council ring. Then came another voice.

  Elder Mira.

  She rose from her place, her glass-ringed braid catching the firelight, her face unreadable.

  “I’ve raised net-weavers and boatmenders,” she said slowly. “But many of them are young. Strong. Too curious to be tied to a dock.” She tilted her head at Kaelen. “I’ll give six. But they come back with all their fingers, or I take yours.”

  Laughter broke the tension—but it didn’t diminish the weight of her decision.

  One by one, the elders who had remained quiet during the first half of the meeting began to stand.

  Elder Renari of the North Tenders gave four trackers.

  Elder Valeen, despite her trembling hands, gave two bark-dyers known for their speed and climbing.

  By the time they were done, nearly half of the elders had stepped forward—committing volunteers not as a show of faith in Kaelen, but because, somehow, they knew he would not lead them into madness.

  He would lead them toward readiness.

  The remaining elders did not move.

  Koriv, Mira’s sharp-eyed counterpart, crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat.

  “You’ve earned respect, boy,” he said. “But this village does not move as one river. Some of us will not leap just because others do.”

  He gestured broadly to the group of dissenters. “We will not offer people to your cause. Not yet. But we will not stop others from doing so.”

  He glanced at Elder Nayla. “Instead, we will watch. And while you train warriors, we will tend to the village. Maintain its balance. Its peace.”

  Kaelen nodded once, without pause.

  “That is fair,” he said. “Because I did not call this meeting to demand anything.”

  He stepped forward again, hands folded before him.

  “I called it to warn you.”

  His eyes swept the entire council once more.

  “To speak truth plainly. That what waits beyond our woods is not a story whispered by traders. It is real. It bleeds. And next time, it may not arrive with twelve Kors. It may come with fifty. Or five hundred.”

  He raised his chin slightly, his voice steady, unwavering.

  “I don’t ask you to believe in me. I only ask that you open your eyes.”

  A silence followed. Deeper than before.

  Elder Nayla stood.

  She did not speak immediately. Instead, she studied Kaelen the way one might study something forged in fire. Shaped by heat, not by time.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but carried to every ear.

  “There are times,” she said, “when I forget I am speaking to a boy. And then there are moments… like this… where I wonder if I am speaking to someone much older than all of us.”

  She turned toward the rest of the council.

  “Let it be recorded: Kaelen, son of Harun, has proposed a path of preparation, of training—not for conquest, but for protection.”

  She tapped her walking staff once.

  “This meeting is concluded.”

  Chairs creaked as elders stood. Some quietly bowed to each other. Some whispered farewells and murmured doubts. Others nodded to Kaelen as they passed—no longer with suspicion, but with thoughtfulness.

  One elder, on his way out, paused beside Kaelen. His name was Elder Solim, a fence builder and carpenter—he had not spoken all night.

  “Watch your steps, boy,” he muttered. “The deeper you walk into change, the harder it is to walk back out.”

  Then he left.

  Others followed.

  Only a few remained behind—those who had pledged volunteers.

  Denor gave Kaelen a curt nod.

  “They’ll be ready in two days,” he said. “Ten of mine. We’ll see what your training brings.”

  Mira adjusted her shawl. “If they return smarter, not just stronger, I’ll send more.”

  Even the quiet Taval stepped forward, placing a hand briefly on Kaelen’s shoulder. His grip, though old, was not weak.

  “You’re not like the others,” he said simply.

  Kaelen nodded with respect.

  They filed out, one by one.

  Until it was just Kaelen, Harun, and Nayla.

  The room had grown quiet again.

  Harun stepped forward, still watching his son not with disbelief… but with something like awe.

  “You stood before them,” Harun said. “You didn’t flinch. Not once.”

  Kaelen looked at him.

  “I couldn’t afford to.”

  Harun smiled faintly. “I know. That’s what scares me most.”

  Nayla looked at Kaelen long and hard.

  “What you’ve begun here,” she said, “will change this village. Maybe for good. Maybe not. But it’s begun.”

  Kaelen nodded. “That’s all I needed.”

  As they turned toward the door, Harun lingered for a moment longer—his gaze soft.

  Twelve years, he thought. And already, he carries a nation’s weight in his chest.

  Two days passed.

  The jungle air was thick with the scent of dew and fresh bark oil. Distant birds called to each other through the canopy, but closer—near the village's east side—another kind of sound began to stir.

  Boots on dirt. Leather shifting. Murmurs.

  Kaelen stepped out into the sunlight, his short cloak brushing against his back. His tunic was plain, but belted tight. He carried no sword at his hip—only a wooden staff across his shoulder, strapped diagonally for ease of reach.

  Rhen appeared beside him without a word, like a shadow grown familiar.

  “They’re gathered,” Rhen said. “Every one of them.”

  Kaelen turned to look at him. “How many?”

  “Thirty,” Rhen replied. “Ten from Denor. Six from Mira. Two from Valeen. The rest—volunteers from the last fight.”

  He smirked. “They said they’re not ready to be left behind. Said they want to learn. Really learn this time.”

  Kaelen nodded once.

  “Good,” he said. “We’ll start with unlearning first.”

  They crossed the short incline to the training grounds—an open stretch of hard-packed dirt ringed with thick-trunked trees. The sun filtered through high vines, dappling the space in golden fragments.

  The recruits were already there.

  Some were lean and wiry, others tall and broad-shouldered. A few were barely past boyhood. Others had eyes hardened from years of foraging or weaving or climbing trees with baskets heavier than they looked. But every one of them stood in line. Watching.

  Waiting.

  At the far end, beneath the shaded edge of the treeline, the elders had gathered.

  Elder Nayla stood centered, staff in hand, eyes narrowed with curiosity. To her left stood Mira, arms folded, her blue-glass braid catching the light. Denor stood to the right, jaw firm, one eye already squinting like he expected disappointment. The others were silent, waiting, skeptical.

  Harun stood just behind Nayla, arms crossed, a faint smirk beneath his beard.

  Kaelen stepped into the center of the field.

  Rhen peeled off toward the right, taking position just beyond the line of trainees, arms loose, eyes alert.

  Kaelen turned to face the gathered.

  “You are not here,” he began, voice clear, “as farmers. Or weavers. Or bark-dyers. Or trackers.”

  “You are here,” he continued, “as defenders of Veleth.”

  His gaze swept the thirty faces before him, then drifted deliberately to the elders watching beyond.

  “You are here to become the shield that holds when the forest shakes.”

  A few of the recruits straightened.

  He stepped closer.

  “And more than that—” he said, “—you are the light that will guide this village forward.”

  Behind him, he caught the faint twitch of a smile on Nayla’s face. Harun, beside her, chuckled under his breath.

  Kaelen opened his mouth to continue—then stopped.

  One of the recruits stepped forward.

  He was taller than most. Lean, muscled through hard work, but his posture wasn’t stiff. It was balanced. Calm. His jaw was set, his hair tied back in a short warrior’s knot—though no one had taught him to do so. His eyes were sharp. Watching. Calculating.

  Kaelen turned slightly.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Jorin,” the boy replied. “I came from Elder Mira’s circle.”

  Kaelen nodded, assessing him quickly.

  “You’ve fought before?” he asked.

  Jorin shrugged. “Only hunted. And sparred with friends. I’ve never killed.”

  “But you think you could beat me?”

  The boy hesitated. “No,” he said. “But I want to know what you know.”

  Kaelen tilted his head, amused. “That’s a strange way of asking.”

  Jorin stepped forward again. “Then I’ll ask proper. May I challenge you?”

  The other recruits stirred. A murmur rippled.

  Kaelen’s smile was faint—but it reached his eyes. “You may.”

  He turned, unstrapping the wooden staff from his shoulder and twirling it once to loosen his grip. Then he looked to Rhen.

  “Rhen. You call it.”

  Rhen nodded and stepped forward.

  “This is a test of skill, not blood,” he said. “First to fall, or first to concede. No strikes after yield.”

  Jorin nodded.

  Kaelen didn’t.

  He didn’t need to.

  Rhen raised a hand, then dropped it.

  “Begin.”

  Jorin moved fast.

  He charged, feet digging into the earth, and swung hard with a training spear he must have carved himself—raw, unfinished, but solid.

  Kaelen didn’t block.

  He stepped to the side. Pivoted. Let the swing pass like wind through leaves.

  Jorin stumbled a little—then recovered.

  Kaelen waited.

  Jorin came again—two fast jabs.

  Kaelen caught the shaft mid-strike, twisted his hips, and brought the staff up into the boy’s chin in one fluid motion.

  The crack of wood against bone echoed.

  Jorin dropped.

  Not hard.

  Not hurt.

  But stunned.

  The wind left him in a gasp as he hit the dirt, blinking at the sky.

  Kaelen lowered his staff.

  “Lie there a moment,” he said calmly. “You’ll learn more from this view.”

  The recruits burst into quiet laughter. Not mocking—impressed.

  Kaelen turned to them slowly.

  “Anyone else?”

  No one moved.

  Even the volunteers who had fought beside him before—bowmen, survivors—lowered their gazes with smirks and stepped back.

  Kaelen rested the staff on his shoulder.

  “Good.”

  He turned back to the group, his voice rising only slightly.

  “Then we begin now.”

  He planted the staff in the dirt. Firm. Steady.

  “And by the time I’m done—”

  He looked at each of them again.

  “There won’t be a single army in this world who’ll call you prey.”