As Lyra watched Dane's back disappear into the crowd, she suddenly felt very alone. She was born with a provisional D rank. Her father, Tormund, was a champion of the legion, and since she was conceived when he was at such a high level, some of his extra life force was passed down to her. She was going to be one hundred next month, which was more than most regular people would get to live.

  The children that she trained with from an early age had all outpaced her in age by the time they were thirty. Once she hit twenty, the aging process had almost halted. Some people couldn't get over the visual age difference, often treating her as if she were still a child. Most of the men even went as far as to speak in a patronizing tone, like a well-meaning grandfather, but it still made her blood boil.

  Maybe her long life was why she hadn't ever felt a desire to train. She just figured that if it were important, she would get to it eventually. But this man that she traveled with looked no older than twenty-five, and he fought like his life was on the line, even when it clearly wasn't.

  The monsters on the path had crumbled beneath his might like a sandcastle under the ocean's rolling tide.

  Still, he fought with a desperation that couldn't be taught. He pushed through every obstacle, and she felt safe when she was with him. It had only been reaffirmed when he leaped in and saved her from one of the priests of the phoenix.

  This was a strange place, and she was done being a third wheel for Zeph and Sara. It was time to go exploring. She walked through the crowds. It was the largest number of Beastmen that she had ever seen gathered in one spot. She was sure the town they'd left had a larger population, but these tribespeople didn't seem to mind living shoulder to shoulder.

  The Beast tongue sounded like a series of grunts, hisses, and phlegm. That's when a notification popped up on her screen.

  System Notification: Translation of Miriad races. Dane has extended his knowledge of languages to those on the Earthbound system. Your understanding of Imperial Common has increased. English(Southern Variant) has been added to your vocabulary. Beast tongue (Dragon Variant) has been added to your vocabulary.

  The knowledge that poured into her brain threatened to rot out her mind. It felt like a pixie with a tiny hammer was going to town on her grey matter. By the time the headache subsided, she found herself clutching her head, lying in a fetal position with a few dozen tribals hovering around her.

  "I am fine. Please just leave me alone." She said in their language perfectly.

  A large Minotaur broke through the crowd. He was close enough that she could feel his putrid, hot breath crawling all over her body. The beast had green eyes that looked oddly human; she could see their reflection in the polished golden nose ring that he wore. His fur was a nearly flawless pitch black, except for the single white spot that looked like a tear above his right shoulder.

  He reached out a hand to her. It was larger than any she had ever seen and strong. She felt his coarse finger nails that were more akin to hooves brush against her tiny arm.

  In a deep voice that reverberated in her chest, he asked. "Are you alright? Lady Sara asked me to come find you."

  Lyra hesitated, then took the Minotaur's hand. His grip was steady, his calluses thick like polished stones. Scars lined his forearms in pale grooves, the kind made by rope, not chain.

  He led her through the crowded camp. The air was dense with fur, smoke, and musk; the murmur of a hundred different dialects tangled together, a chorus of growls, clicks, and hisses. But Lyra understood every word now.

  "Is that her?"

  "The pale one, I heard she came with the demon."

  "Don't look. Don't draw his eye."

  "She walks with Aurion's kin. Maybe she's blessed, too."

  The words slid through the crowd like wind through tall grass. Lyra caught every syllable and wished she still didn't understand. She had expected stares, but she hadn't expected fear.

  The Minotaur's bulk parted the crowd until they reached a firepit encircled by tents that were stitched together from various hides of many creatures. She could feel a kinship to the Beastmen that sat close to the flames, wrapped in furs, their eyes hollowed by hunger and memory. Most were quiet. When they did speak, it was in hushed tones so low that she felt it could have been imagined.

  Sara was there, silver fur catching the firelight, ears perked in wary attention. But it was Zeph who drew every gaze. His wings were folded tight against his back, the faint shimmer of golden feathers peeking from beneath a travel-stained cloak. He stood tall despite the protruding bandages on his side.

  The whispers stopped the moment he looked up. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to soften.

  Lyra felt the shift; it was reverence. To these people, Zeph wasn't just a man. He was the blood of a god.

  One of the older Beastmen near the fire rose and hissed toward her, his voice trembling. "Why bring the fangless here? She came with the demon. She brings his scent."

  Others muttered in agreement. The air thickened with unease. Lyra opened her mouth, ready to defend herself, but Zeph's voice cut through the noise.

  "She is a friend," he said. "A companion of Dane, same as me. The demon, as you call him. Saved your lives and gave you all a home."

  He paused for a long moment, then continued. "If any of you wish to renounce the Earthbound System, then go ahead and do so now. If not, we leave after he has completed the rite. Dane speaks of a dungeon home that is his Barony. It has everything you need, and the town is made entirely of slaves that Dane has freed himself."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The crowd grew discontent at the words. Most had never seen benevolence and refused to believe in fairy tales.

  "So his freedom does have a price."

  "He is just a slave king like the legion."

  Dane walked into the tent, his opal eyes scanning the crowd. The Beastkin grew quiet and refused to meet his gaze.

  "Like you, I was a slave. I spent years toiling in elven mines. I will never lie to you: if you come with me, you're choosing war. Some of you will fight, others will build, but none of you are safe. My enemy is too powerful for that. All I can promise is this... I will tear down the world before I kneel again."

  Fire burned in his eyes as he said it. He could see some of the formerly enslaved people trembling. He hadn't meant to, but two points of Dragon essence slipped out and empowered his words as he spoke.

  "I am told that the rite will take twelve hours to complete. The next time I return, those who remain here will be going to Chronowell."

  No one spoke after that. The authority in his tone carried something more than confidence. It felt like the voice of a tyrannical god. Dane walked to where his travel sack was next to Sara and Zeph, and he grabbed three items—a golden scale, a fang that was dripping with purple venom, and a crimson feather. He left the tent, the Beastmen parting out of his way as he went.

  Zeph's golden eyes softened as he looked at Lyra. "These people are still healing," he said quietly. "They've had more taken from them than most can imagine."

  Lyra nodded, but her gaze stayed fixed on the tent flap where Dane had gone. It wasn't what he said that hung in the air, but how he said it. She had seen her share of war leaders deliver similar speeches, but his was filled with hatred. It wasn't cold or calculated; his rage was palpable. The firelight trembled across the faces around her, and for a heartbeat, she could almost believe he was something else entirely.

  When she finally spoke, her voice came out small. "Was that… the real Dane?"

  Zeph's expression didn't change. He looked into the flames, wings folding tighter behind him. "I'm not sure. I've never heard him speak like that before… but it fits how he fights. I can see why his Beastform is a demon."

  The fire popped, scattering embers into the dark. Lyra watched them rise until they vanished, the chill that followed hollow and heavy. She didn't know if it was awe she felt, or fear.

  His breath came unevenly. Every inhale scraped his throat like sand, every exhale left a trace of heat in the cold air.

  The silence after the speech still rang in his ears. He heard the murmurs, saw the fear, and the way the crowd had pulled back when he spoke.

  He flexed his fingers. The joints ached from overuse; his knuckles were swollen, scabbed from training. There was a faint tremor under the skin like a pulse that didn't quite belong to him.

  The air always tasted like iron now.

  He closed his eyes, but the light of the campfire still burned in his sight. Every word he'd said replayed in his head, stripped of meaning, sound, breath, and anger. He heard himself... I will tear down the world before I kneel again... and hated how natural it had felt leaving his mouth.

  He tried to steady his breathing, but each draw of air was sharp. His body still buzzed from the essence that had slipped free, the residue of god ki, a hum just beneath his skin.

  He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the slow, uneven rhythm of his heart. It didn't match his breath. It hadn't for a long time.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. His shoulders ached where the armor had rubbed raw. He realized he was grinding his teeth again and forced them to part.

  The quiet surrounded him. He could hear the pop of distant firewood from the camp, the faint rhythm of wind moving between the tents. Every other sound was his own: the creak of his boots when he shifted weight, the wet rasp of breath through clenched teeth, the dull throb behind his eyes.

  He'd been alone too long.

  Fourteen years of silence. He cleared the temporal dungeon, but half of his life had been spent on mindless slaughter of monsters. But it was honest. When a beast charged, you didn't need to wonder about the politics of the situation. It was you or them. Simple.

  He opened his eyes. His reflection stared back from a shallow pool near his feet, rippling from his breath. The eyes that met him weren't human; they shimmered faintly, opal light pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

  "You should've stopped talking," he whispered to his reflection.

  "You should've known what you sounded like." The reflection didn't answer. It never did.

  A shadow moved at the edge of the light. A low scrape of claws against sand, a sound too deliberate to be the wind.

  Draka didn't speak right away.

  "You left your followers in chaos," she said finally. Her voice was deep, edged with smoke and patience.

  Dane didn't look up. "They needed to hear it."

  "They heard it," she said. "That's the problem."

  He dragged a hand down his face. The skin around his eyes was hot, tender. "You think I scared them?"

  "I think you scared yourself."

  He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I scared them because I meant it."

  Draka stepped closer, her shadow stretching over the rippling water. The faint scent of ash and oil clung to her, and beneath it, something like rain. "You freed them, Dane. You fed them. You gave them back their names. But, still, you think the only language they'll understand is fire."

  He looked up at her then, jaw tight, eyes burning faintly in the dark. "Then what am I doing wrong?"

  She studied him for a long moment. "Wrong?"

  "I saved them. I fought for them. But when I spoke, they looked at me like I was the one who'd chained them." His throat ached as he spoke. "So tell me, Draka... what am I doing wrong?"

  Draka crouched, her tail sweeping the dust into a slow spiral. When she finally answered, her tone was almost gentle.

  "What makes a great leader, Dane?"

  He blinked, not expecting the question. "I don't know.”

  "Most don't," she said. "Because power alone isn't it. Conviction isn't it either."

  She reached into the light, talons brushing the surface of the water between them. "You have strength, purpose, even vision. But tell me... are your goals for your people… or for yourself?"

  He froze. The question hit harder than any blade.

  Draka's eyes caught the faint glow of his reflection. "You hate what was done to you. I understand. But hatred doesn't build... it only breaks. You can lead a war with it, but not a people."

  He swallowed, the sound dry and heavy in his throat.

  "If your fight is for them," she said, "they'll follow you. But if it's for you, they'll only obey, because they're afraid or angry.”

  Dane looked down. The reflection in the water blurred and split. "Then maybe I've been fighting ghosts."

  "Then stop," she said.

  The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the camp. Somewhere behind them, a child laughed... a small, brittle sound that faded too quickly.

  Dane breathed out, slowly. "The rite," he said. "It's not about strength, is it?"

  Draka just stared at her pupil for a moment. "No."

  "It's not."