Aziz's POV
I crouched on a thick baobab branch, moonlight dripping off my shoulders as I watched the narrow path snake through the clearing below.
Any moment now, the traffickers would slither through swine who thought darkness made them invisible.
One more nest of filth to burn out, one more road safe for people who deserved better than kings.
A branch over, my mother crouched like the jungle's iron heartbeat huge, scarred, patient.
Her white dreadlocks spilled over the battered leather eye patch, the wolf-head cloak snarling on her shoulder.
Even wrapped in shadows, she looked like she could bend steel with her bare hands to prove the Shujaa didn't need Arcane in their blood to crush mountains.
They were shaped by the land itself: muscle and iron will make flesh.
It humbled me, even now how the Arcane chose some and ignored others, and how she never envied what I carried in my veins.
She cut her gaze my way, one eye catching a sliver of moonlight through the leaves.
"Do you sense them now, my cub?" she murmured, voice a soft balm wrapped around a steel edge.
I closed my eyes and breathed deep, letting the forest hush settle in my ribs.
Palm on the bark, I bled Arcane into the roots a quiet claim.
It spread quickly, stitching the ground, snapping the dark into shape behind my eyes: trees, stones, broken pews and the Oaks, a small squad tucked between ruin and shadow, armor clinking like bells for a thief.
"They're here," I said, voice low but certain. "The Oaks. Every last one of them."
A knot of shame caught in my throat. "Can't count exact numbers. Sorry, Mother."
A flicker of pride cracked her mask before she smothered it behind the old wolf-bone plate scarred through brow and cheek, same as the eye she'd never told me about.
Her hand found my arm, warm and heavy.
"Don't be ashamed. You did well."
She tugged the mask low. When she spoke again, the jungle itself listened:
She barked at the hidden Shujaa below, her voice cracking through the branches:
"Shields up! Spears forward! Cut them down!"
The Oaks broke through the clearing, armor creaking, too slow to see her drop.
My mother hit the ground silent as a falling axe. Her cloak whispered behind her boots. The Oaks froze and she moved.
Her hands twitched metal unwound from her wrists, thin and dark, alive with flickering gold runes.
Each crack lit the air in a quick arc of dusk and pulse-light, coiling a neck, snapping bone, then slithering back to a hungry shimmer at her side.
Behind her, the Shujaa burst from the brush masks snarling, blades flashing.
They struck the Oaks like jungle cats, dark blades in their fists, edges blackened and carved with glowing sigils, each pulse of light a promise of blood.
Above them, I crouched on my branch, Arcane pressing hot at my veins, begging to be let loose.
I dropped from the branch like a stone. One knee slammed into a green ork's jaw bone cracked, tusks split his lip.
I rose slowly, boots wet with his blood.
Another ork froze, eyes locked on the markings coiled up my arms and throat gold lines inked into my skin like a living tattoo.
My brand. My birthright.
One found his voice, blade rattling in his grip:
"Royalty! He's Arcane-blooded—"
Another spat.
"I see it. Kill him!"
I swung my hand raw Arcane surged, blooming into a jagged wall of crimson light-forged spikes, each point shimmering like a frozen storm ready to tear through flesh and iron alike.
A heartbeat later, ribs, spines, and throats split open bodies pinned mid-scream on the burning red spears before the Arcane flickered out, dropping broken corpses and fading embers into the blood-soaked dirt.
The clearing stilled, save for the patter of blood dripping from my boots.
Movement more orks, fleeing through the trees, stumbling blind over roots.
"No… no, no!"
Panic clawed up my chest as I watched them scatter into the trees.
I tapped thumb to finger red Arcane flickered through my veins, veins of living light under my skin.
The shadows of the trees, the carts, every rock and broken wheel crept closer, tugged by the pulse of my will.
I let them taste it, baiting them, coaxing them then snapped my mind shut, ready to twist every inch of darkness to my command.
"Az."
Her voice cut through me like a blade. The shadows snapped free, melting back into the trees and earth.
I turned. She stood among her rebels calm as a stone idol giving me just the smallest shake of her head.
I moved to her side as our rebels cracked open crates, locks snapping like twigs.
"Why did you stop me, Mother? I could've caught them."
She didn't answer right away watching the freed prisoners stumble into our ranks. Then, quiet, her answer:
"A corpse carries no fear. A survivor carries it for miles."
I understood. Fear was worth more than blood tonight.
She looked at me then my mother, my chisel and my whetstone both.
"Stay sharp for me, cub. You are my cleanest edge. This rot in our land… we cut it out piece by piece.
Together."
I bowed my head. Yes, Mother.
A rebel near the crates punched the air: "Victory!"
The others roared back, a ragged choir rattling the broken stones.
She lifted her sword, voice rolling over theirs in raw Shujaa, a language older than kingdoms, older than Arcane itself.
Her people. Her blood. The jungle's breath given shape.
I stood in the hush she left behind, a flicker of pride blooming in my chest.
Her son.
Then wings folded back like ink on silk. The raven settled on a crate its body as thick as a man's forearm, feathers midnight-black, eyes glinting with secrets.
The camp tensed.
A few blades slid half-free.
Mother raised her hand silence fell like a blade. She didn't look away from the bird.
"For you," she said softly.
I stepped closer, the raven's ancient eyes fixed on me.
Its talons bit gently into my leather bracer The scroll lashed to its leg caught my eye, glowing faintly in the firelight.
I worked the knot free, throat tight. One word from me, and the raven vanished into the canopy eaten by the night.
I read. Each word cut deeper than any blade:
The King is dying. He calls for you. He must name his heir.
The world narrowed to the parchment in my fist. My father the man who forged my spine iron-hard, who taught me a king's duty costs more than a king's crown.
Beside me, Mother's hand found my shoulder grounding me in the here and now, in the war that still needed me.
Enoch appeared behind her, his half-masked face calm as mountain stone.
"All well, my lady?"
She spoke low to him words I didn't catch. His eyes found mine, steady and dark. I opened my mouth:
"After this, I'll"
He cut me off with a firm shake of his head. "No. Your father calls. Go to him. Be his son be our king later."
He gripped my forearm, heat and iron both.
"When you wear that crown, bring your army back. Drive these carrion from our soil."
Mother cupped my face, eyes burning with pride and grief she wouldn't speak aloud.
"Go. Be our king. Come back my son — and come back with fire."
They pressed blessings to my brow, rough hands clapping my shoulders. For a breath, there was no throne, no rebellion — just home. Just family.