Walrick walked through the sprawling camp, trying not to count the number of people who now lived here.

  Too many. That was the answer. Too many by far.

  The settlement spread across the river plain like spilt grain—chaotic, unplanned, growing faster than anyone could control. Tents clustered in tight groups, organised by old band affiliations. Here, Quoral's people. There, the remnants of Gethrun's band. Further out, three smaller groups that had surrendered last month.

  No walls. No barriers. Just hundreds of people pressed together, eating from the same diminishing supplies, drinking from the same fouled river sections, shitting in the same overfilled pits.

  Paths between the tents had worn into mud. Dogs roamed in packs, fighting over scraps. Children cried from hunger, sickness, or both. Smoke from a hundred fires merged into a grey haze that never quite lifted.

  *This is what Vekarn's paradise looks like,* Walrick thought. *A camp that's eating itself from the inside.*

  He passed a group of warriors—recent additions, still wearing their old band's style of braided hair—sitting around a dying fire. They watched him walk past. Didn't nod. Didn't speak. Just watched with hollow eyes.

  Unrest.

  That's what he'd come to report. Unrest and hunger and the growing sense that Vekarn's grand vision was built on sand.

  But you didn't say that to Vekarn. Not if you wanted to keep breathing.

  So he'd go to Isac instead. The son. The heir. The one who moved through camp like he owned every person in it.

  Walrick reached the centre of the settlement where the largest structures stood. Not tents. Proper shelters. Wood frames, hide walls, and space enough to stand without hitting your head.

  The elders lived here. The inner circle. The ones who'd bent the knee early and been rewarded with comfort.

  And Isac.

  His shelter sat apart from the others. Larger. Better constructed. Hide walls without holes. A proper door frame instead of a flap.

  *Of course.*

  Walrick stopped outside. Adjusted his cloak. Tried to compose his face into something resembling respect rather than resentment.

  He cleared his throat. "Isac. It's Walrick. I need to speak with you."

  Silence.

  Then: "Come in."

  Walrick pushed through the hide door.

  The interior was warm. A proper fire pit in the centre, stones arranged to hold heat. Furs piled thick on the sleeping area. Tools hung from pegs—well-made, expensive trades. A clay pot. A bone comb. Things most people in camp couldn't afford.

  Isac stood with his back turned, tying the cord of his leather trousers tight around his waist. His shoulders were broad, muscled from training. Hair fell in long chestnut brown locks to his upper back, catching firelight.

  He was twenty winters. Looked like he'd never gone hungry a day in his life.

  On the sleeping mat—naked, uncovered, making no effort to hide—lay a woman.

  Walrick's eyes went to her before he could stop himself.

  Fae. Elder Kallen's daughter.

  She stretched like a cat, letting the fur fall away from her body. Dark brown curls spilt across the sleeping mat. Full breasts, soft stomach, hips that curved in ways that made his mouth go dry.

  She saw him looking. Smiled. Didn't cover herself.

  *Don't stare. Don't—*

  But he did. For a moment too long. At the line of her neck. At her thighs. The way firelight painted shadows across her skin.

  Isac turned around. Caught him staring.

  Smiled.

  "Do you want her?"

  Walrick's face went hot. He jerked his eyes away. "I—what?"

  Isac's smile widened. "Fae. Come here, darling."

  She rose. Moved across the shelter with exaggerated sway to her hips, each step deliberate. She pressed herself against Isac's chest, ran her hands over his shoulders, kissed the hollow of his throat.

  "Isac," she purred. "What do you need, my love?"

  Isac's hand came down on her arse. Hard. The slap echoed in the small space.

  She yelped. The sound was half pain, half pleasure. Her body arched into him.

  Walrick looked at the floor. At the walls. Anywhere else.

  Isac chuckled. "If you keep gawking at her, I can arrange for her to come to your tent tonight." His voice was light. Amused. As if he were offering to lend a tool.

  "A pleasure," Walrick said quickly. Too quickly. "But I have a wife."

  Isac looked at him for a long moment. Then laughed. Full-bodied. Genuine.

  Fae looked at Walrick. Her expression shifted—amusement gone, irritation taking its place. "Speak quickly. You're interrupting our personal hour."

  *Personal hour. Is that what we're calling it?*

  Walrick composed himself. Straightened his shoulders. "Ah. Yes. Apologies."

  He kept his eyes on Isac's face. Not on Fae. Not on her body, still pressed against Isac's side, her hand resting possessively on his chest.

  "Unrest is rising within the camp," Walrick said. "Food is scarce. Too many mouths to feed. Near three hundred now. People are angry. Talking."

  *Some are talking about leaving. Some are worse.*

  But he didn't say that part.

  Isac played with Fae's hair. Twisted a curl around his finger. Didn't look concerned. "Talking about what?"

  "About hunger. About how the hunting parties bring back less each week. About how the fish aren't enough." Walrick paused. "About whether this coalition can actually feed everyone."

  Fae made a small sound. Impatient. Bored.

  Isac kissed the top of her head. Kept his eyes on Walrick. "It seems we can't solely rely on prey."

  No alarm. No urgency. Just a calm acknowledgement.

  "Worry not, Walrick." Isac's fingers traced down Fae's spine. She arched into the touch. "Make sure to convey this to all the elders: the coalition should immediately focus on fishing. The river. The nearby lake. Expand operations."

  He paused. Thought.

  "And tell them to implement the fish traps that Arulan's band uses. The ones with the V-shaped stone channels. Teshar's design." His mouth tightened slightly on the name. "It works. We'll use it."

  Walrick nodded. "Is that all, Isac?"

  Fae answered before Isac could. "That is all, Walrick. See yourself out. Please."

  Her tone made it clear: *you're dismissed.*

  Isac smiled at him. Easy. Unbothered. One hand still tangled in Fae's hair.

  Walrick turned. Pushed through the hide door. Let it fall closed behind him.

  Outside, he breathed.

  Cold air hit his lungs. He stood there for a moment, letting the heat drain from his face.

  *That's our future leader. That's who Vekarn is grooming to inherit this mess.*

  A man who lived in the largest shelter whilst others starved. Who had elders' daughters warming his bed whilst warriors went hungry. Who gave orders about fishing whilst lying naked with a woman who looked at everyone else like they were insects?

  *And we're supposed to trust him to lead? To care about us?*

  Walrick started walking. Back through the sprawling camp. Past the dying fires and the hollow-eyed warriors and the children crying from hunger.

  The settlement looked worse on the return journey. Or maybe he was just seeing it clearly now.

  Too many people. Not enough food. Not enough space. Not enough of anything.

  Vekarn's coalition had grown too fast. Absorbed too many bands. Promised too much.

  And now the promises were cracking.

  Fishing. That's what Isac said. Implement the fish traps.

  *As if that will solve everything. As if a few clever designs will feed three hundred mouths.*

  But orders were orders. And Walrick wasn't stupid enough to question them aloud.

  He reached his own tent—small, cramped, shared with his wife and their two children. The hide walls had holes. The fire pit barely held heat. It smelled of damp and smoke and too many bodies in too small a space.

  Home.

  His wife looked up when he entered. "Well?"

  "He said to focus on fishing. Implement fish traps."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  She snorted. "That's it? That's his solution?"

  "That's it."

  She went back to stirring the thin broth that was their evening meal. Barely enough to fill half a bowl each.

  Walrick sat by the fire. Let the heat soak into his bones.

  He thought about Isac's shelter. The furs. The space. The woman.

  He thought about Fae's body. About the way she'd looked at him like he was nothing. About the slap and the moan and the casual ownership in Isac's voice when he'd offered to "arrange" her.

  *That's what power looks like here. Not leading. Not caring. Just taking what you want and dismissing everyone else.*

  His younger brother Quinton had been right.

  *It's only a matter of time. This fragile hold will break.*

  But not today. Not whilst Vekarn still commanded warriors. Not whilst Isac still had elders' daughters in his bed and hunting parties bringing back just enough meat to keep people from outright revolt.

  So Walrick would deliver the message. Tell the elders about fishing. About fish traps. About Teshar's design from Arulan's band.

  And he'd watch. And wait.

  Because eventually, this coalition would collapse under its own weight.

  Too many people. Not enough food. Not enough to hold them together except for fear.

  And fear only worked until it didn't.

  * * *

  Walrick didn't go home.

  Orders were orders. And Isac had said to convey the message to all the elders.

  *All of them.*

  He started with Elder Kallen.

  Deliberate choice. She was Fae's mother. She needed to know first. And she'd want to know first.

  Her tent sat near the centre, not quite as large as Isac's but larger than most. Proper frame. Good hides. No holes in the walls.

  Walrick announced himself outside. "Elder Kallen. It's Walrick. I bring word from Isac."

  A pause. Then: "Enter."

  He pushed through the hide flap.

  The interior was warm, orderly. Furs arranged precisely. Tools hung from pegs in neat rows. A small clay cup sat beside her—fermented honey water, by the smell. Luxury.

  Elder Kallen sat cross-legged near the fire. Older woman, maybe forty-five winters. Hair greying at the temples. Face carved with lines that spoke of decisions made and survived. She wore her authority like a cloak—quiet, certain, unquestionable.

  She gestured to a spot across from her. "Sit. Speak."

  Walrick sat. "Isac has ordered all elders to shift focus. Hunting yields are dropping. Too many mouths. He wants increased fishing operations. River and lake both. And the implementation of fish traps. The design from Arulan's band. Teshar's design."

  Kallen's expression didn't change. She lifted the clay cup, sipped. Set it down with precise care.

  "Fish traps," she repeated. "Borrowed from Arulan."

  "Yes, Elder."

  "And Isac believes this will solve our food problem."

  "He believes it will help, Elder."

  She was quiet for a moment. Her eyes—sharp, measuring—stayed on his face.

  "Tell me," she said. Voice dropping lower. "What else did you see in Isac's tent?"

  Walrick's throat tightened. "I... reported the unrest. The food shortage. He gave orders."

  "And my daughter?"

  *There it is.*

  "She was present, Elder."

  Kallen's jaw tightened. Just for a moment. Then smoothed. "Present. How diplomatic." She sipped again. "I know what my daughter does. I know who she warms beds for. I disapprove. But disapproval changes nothing when the alternative is losing what little power we have."

  Walrick said nothing. What could he say?

  "Convey the orders to the others," Kallen said. "Then return to me. We'll speak again."

  It wasn't a request.

  Walrick stood. Bowed slightly. Left.

  * * *

  Elder Mureth was next. Old man, bent with age. His band had been one of the first to join Vekarn willingly. Eight winters ago, before the coalition was even called that.

  He listened to Walrick's report without interruption.

  When Walrick finished, Mureth nodded. "Good. Fishing makes sense. We should've focused on it sooner." He waved a hand. "I'll organise my people. Go. Tell the others."

  No complaint. No resistance. Just obedience.

  *He's been under Vekarn's thumb so long he doesn't remember what resistance feels like.*

  * * *

  Elder Laith was next. Loyal man. Had bent the knee early and stayed bent. His band followed Vekarn without question.

  When Walrick delivered the orders, Laith barely blinked.

  "Fish traps. Makes sense. We'll implement them." He stood, already moving to organise his people. "Anything else?"

  "No, Elder."

  "Good. I'll start immediately."

  Pure loyalty. No hesitation.

  *One of Vekarn's true believers. Or just smart enough to pretend.*

  * * *

  Elder Prell was different.

  Younger man. Strong. His band had surrendered three months ago after losing twelve warriors in a skirmish.

  When Walrick delivered the orders, Prell's face darkened.

  "Fish traps," he said. Voice flat. "That's the solution? Fish traps?"

  "Those are the orders, Elder."

  "My people are starving. We need meat. Real meat. Not river scraps." Prell leaned forward. "And now we're supposed to copy Arulan's designs? The same Arulan who refused to join Vekarn? We're *learning* from our enemies?"

  "Teshar's designs work," Walrick said carefully. "They multiply catch without—"

  "I don't care if they multiply miracles." Prell's hands curled into fists. "My people didn't join this coalition to go hungry. We were promised strength. Unity. Where's the strength when we're scraping river mud for food?"

  Walrick kept his voice level. "The orders come from Isac. If you have complaints, take them to him."

  Prell's jaw worked. He knew what "take them to Isac" really meant. Complain and be made an example of.

  He spat into the dirt. "Fine. We'll fish. But tell Isac this doesn't solve anything. It just delays the problem."

  "I'll convey your concerns, Elder."

  *I won't. But I'll say I did.*

  * * *

  Elder Sovran barely looked up when Walrick entered.

  Old woman. Tired. Her band joined last month. Twenty-three people, half of them children.

  "Fish traps," Walrick said. "Increased fishing. Teshar's design from Arulan's band."

  Sovran nodded. Didn't speak. Just nodded.

  "Do you understand, Elder?"

  "I understand." Her voice came out hollow. "We'll do as ordered. Is there anything else?"

  "No, Elder."

  She went back to staring at the fire.

  Walrick left. Felt something cold settle in his stomach.

  * * *

  Elder Henric was angry.

  His band had been conquered last week. Forty-one people. Six dead in the fighting.

  "Fishing," he said. Voice sharp. "You come to my tent—my *conquered* tent—and tell me to focus on fishing."

  "Those are the orders."

  "Orders." Henric stood. He was tall. Broad. Young enough to still fight, old enough to know better. "We were warriors. We hunted aurochs. We tracked deer for days. And now we're supposed to stand in rivers catching minnows?"

  "Elder—"

  "Don't 'Elder' me." Henric stepped closer. "I'm only an elder because Vekarn let me keep the title after he broke my warriors and scattered my people. I'm a pet. A decoration. And you come here giving me orders like I have a choice?"

  Walrick held his ground. "You have a choice. Obey or be replaced."

  Henric's nostrils flared. His hands shook. For a moment, Walrick thought he might swing.

  Then Henric exhaled. Stepped back. "Fine. We'll fish. Tell Isac we'll fish. Tell him we'll do whatever he wants. Because that's what conquered people do. They obey."

  He turned away. Dismissed Walrick with his back.

  Walrick left quickly.

  *That one's dangerous. He'll break eventually. Question is when.*

  * * *

  He visited four more elders. Reactions varied.

  Elder Waltar: loyal, efficient, already planning where to place the traps. One of Vekarn's most reliable.

  Elder Gismund: sullen, resentful, but too afraid to protest openly.

  Elder Aena: thoughtful, asking questions about the design, genuinely interested in making it work. Another loyal one.

  Elder Cullen: dismissive, waving him away before he'd finished speaking.

  Each one revealed the same truth: the coalition wasn't unified. It was held together by force and fear and the promise of food that was running out.

  Some elders had bent the knee so long ago they'd forgotten what pride felt like.

  Others still remembered. Still ached. Still burned.

  The structure was there. The hierarchy is visible. But it was built on sand.

  One push. That's all it would take. One push and the whole thing would collapse.

  *But who would push? And when?*

  * * *

  Walrick saved Elder Kallen for last.

  When he returned to her tent, she was exactly where he'd left her. Same position. Same cup. Like she hadn't moved at all.

  "Sit," she said. "Tell me."

  Walrick sat. "I've delivered the orders to all elders. Most accepted. Prell and Henric protested but will comply. Sovran is... broken. The others fall between."

  Kallen nodded. Sipped her honey water. "What have I missed, young man?" Her voice carried that regal tone she used when discussing serious matters. Not asking. Demanding.

  Walrick knew what she meant. This wasn't about fish traps.

  "The usual tensions," he said carefully. "Food complaints. Unrest. Nothing organised yet."

  "Yet." She set the cup down. "Are there any new coalitions rising up, or is it just the two we know of now?"

  Walrick hesitated.

  Information gathering was primitive. News travelled slowly, often weeks behind events. What he knew was already old. Possibly wrong. Definitely incomplete.

  "Tysha has formed her own coalition," he said. "Confirmed. Maybe thirty people so far. She's using it to protect her band whilst strengthening her position."

  Kallen's eyes sharpened. "Hmm." She thought. "So Tysha has formed her own band, you're telling me. What of Elder Eren?"

  "Eren as well. He is different. He's taking in survivors. Escapees from Vekarn's raids. People who fled rather than submit. His coalition isn't about power. It's about shelter."

  "And Luther?"

  "Luther, too. But his is about power. He's gathering warriors. Building strength. Positioning himself."

  Kallen's mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. "And Arulan?"

  Walrick paused. "Arulan is... both. He's gathering bands for protection against Vekarn. But also to strengthen his own position. He's practical. Strategic. Dangerous."

  "Good." Kallen lifted her cup again. Didn't drink. Just held it. "Four coalitions rising against Vekarn. All with different motives. All useful in their own way."

  She looked at Walrick over the cup's rim. "Make sure you withhold this information."

  "From whom, Elder?"

  She smiled then. Sharp. Predatory. "From certain elders. The ones who are not satisfied with Vekarn's rule." She began listing names. "Prell. Henric. Gismund. Cullen." She paused, sipped her honey water. "Not Waltar—he's loyal, useful. Not Laith—too obedient to be interesting. Not Aena—she actually believes in the work."

  Her eyes glittered. "But the others? The bitter ones? The conquered ones?"

  Walrick's stomach tightened. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Give them twisted reports. Tell Prell that Henric is planning to challenge Vekarn. Tell Henric that Prell is gathering warriors in secret. Tell Gismund that both are blaming him for food shortages." Her eyes glittered. "Fan the flames. I want these men on their toes and frustrated. I want them to make mistakes."

  "Why?"

  "Because frustrated men are predictable. Angry men are useful. And when Vekarn's coalition finally cracks—and it will crack—I need to know exactly who breaks first and how." She set the cup down. "So I can position myself accordingly."

  Walrick stared at her.

  "Now go," Kallen said. Voice returning to that regal tone. "Do your job well. You've been doing splendid service so far. Don't let me down."

  It was a dismissal. A command. A threat wrapped in praise.

  Walrick stood. Bowed. "Yes, Elder."

  He left her tent and walked back through the sprawling camp.

  The settlement looked different now. Not just a mess of people pressed together. But a powder keg. Dozens of small fires are waiting for someone to link them together.

  And Elder Kallen was placing tinder.

  Walrick reached his own tent. His wife was already asleep. The children, too. The fire had died to embers.

  He lay down in the dark and stared at the high ceiling.

  *I'm a spy. For a woman who's playing both sides. Reporting to her about unrest, whilst she uses that information to create more unrest.*

  *And if I refuse? If I stop reporting?*

  *She'd replace me. Or worse.*

  So he'd keep doing it. Keep reporting. Keep delivering twisted messages. Keep watching the coalition tear itself apart from the inside.

  Because the alternative was being torn apart with it.

  Walrick closed his eyes.

  Outside, the camp sprawled on. Hundreds of people pressed together, unaware that the elders meant to lead them were busy plotting against each other.

  Vekarn's paradise.

  Built on blood. Held together by fear. Rotting from within.

  *It's only a matter of time.*

  His younger brother Quinton had been right.

  And Elder Kallen was making sure that when it broke, she'd be standing in the right place to catch the pieces.