The sky had dimmed, the scent of blood and char still clinging to the wind as the warriors gathered beneath the great steppe sky.
A circle of fires had been lit. The cooks, storm-trained and clan-blooded, roasted cuts of orc meat over spitted flame, laced with herbs brought from the highlands. Breads were broken. Ale poured thick into iron mugs. The drums had fallen silent, replaced by laughter that returned like embers catching on dry bark. Slowly, life bled back into the bones of the victorious.
Altan sat at the center table, carved hastily from a cart plank and flanked with benches reinforced by battered shields. Around him, twenty Stormguards, those who had survived the wedge, sat shoulder to shoulder with the scouts of Stormwake and the remnants of three clans. Their helms still on. Faces hidden.
It didn't go unnoticed.
Whispers passed between younger clansmen. Eyes narrowed. Some looked wary, others confused, until finally Bruga's uncle gave voice to it.
"They do not eat with their faces shown?" he muttered, loud enough for those nearby.
Altan, seated between Kael and Stormwake, raised a hand.
"Unbind."
The order was soft. Final.
A rustle passed through the Stormguard as one by one, gauntleted hands reached up, unfastening clasps. Helms came free with metallic sighs. Hair shook loose, sweat-slick and blood-matted. Faces emerged, scarred, tired, powerful. Not the blank masks of soldiers, but men and women with jawlines cut by war and eyes that remembered fire.
The clans stared.
These were no mercenaries. These were veterans. Storm-forged. Each face told a tale.
And then, at the end of the table, the last helm lifted.
Nyzekh removed his.
Gasps rippled.
Even Bruga's father and brother stiffened. For a long moment, silence cloaked the table.
The pale firelight flickered over Nyzekh's features. Obsidian skin, high cheekbones, and long silver hair that fell past his shoulders. His ears, less pointed than most elves, swept back subtly beneath the strands. His eyes were ash grey—flat at first glance, but when the fire caught them, they mirrored both the darkness beyond the feast and the flames that lit it.
A dark elf.
One of the chasm-born. The cursed. The forgotten.
No one spoke.
Then Bruga rose.
Mug in hand, still crusted with dried blood. He looked across the firepit and raised his voice.
"I studied with this man."
A few turned.
"I trained with him. Fought beside him. Monk's Hill. Stormguard Grove. He was beside me when the charge broke, and again when we shattered the wedge."
Bruga turned toward his kin.
"I've never seen him falter. Never seen him flinch."
He looked at Nyzekh, eyes firm.
"This is my comrade. My brother-in-war. A blade that strikes when I fall. A shadow that watches when I sleep. You ask who he is? I tell you now."
He raised the mug high.
"This is Nyzekh. Ghost of the Fold. Blade of the Line."
His voice surged.
"Honor him."
For a moment, there was only the sound of wind.
Then Bruga's father stood. Then his brother. One by one, the clansmen rose, lifting their mugs.
A beat passed.
Then came the first slam.
Thud.
Then another.
Thud. Thud.
Mugs struck tables. A rhythm of approval. Of acceptance.
A roar of mugs on wood, fists on shields, throats opening in wordless approval.
Nyzekh did not smile. But he bowed his head once.
Respect met in silence.
Bruga drank deep. The others followed.
And so, on the field still wet with green blood and fire-scorched bone, they feasted not just for victory, but for kin newly earned.
For in that moment, clan and Stormguard were one.
Later, as firelight waned and bellies filled, Bruga's father leaned toward Altan.
His voice was quiet but firm. "You fought beside my son, and broke the wedge with him. But tell me, what is your true reason for coming here? I don't think this is just about Bruga."
Altan didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked across the fires, where laughter still danced and weapons leaned forgotten against logs.
The war hall stood quiet now. Only Nyzekh and Bruga remained with Altan. The great banners no longer swayed, and the echoes of command had faded, leaving only breath and stone. The embers in the central hearth glowed low, casting long shadows across the carved walls.
Outside, the feast still burned on. Laughter muffled by canvas and distance. But inside the tent, silence pressed in like snow.
Around the edges of the great space, the clansmen waited. Bruga's father stood among them, arms folded. His brother leaned forward, eyes sharp beneath his brow. Elders from each of the three allied clans had gathered, standing beneath the faded sigils of their forebears. None spoke. None interrupted.
All waited for one thing.
Altan's answer.
The flickering firelight danced across their faces. Hopeful, doubtful, hardened by long winters and harder wars. Warriors who had seen too many false promises. Traders who had lost kin to Dazhum raids. Chiefs who remembered when unity among the steppe-born was nothing but a myth.
And now they stood, watching him. Testing him with silence.
What would this outsider say? This warborn son of the Gale?
Was he offering alliance or just another leash?
Altan stepped forward, gaze steady.
"If the clans do not join us, we will not march beyond your borders. We'll hold the line with our allies in the free cities. Defend what is ours. And we will watch, as the Dazhum legions devour the Sturmwulf clans, one mountain at a time."
Bruga's father grunted. "And if we do join?"
Altan met his gaze.
"Then we are bound as brothers. The Stormguard will fight beside your clans. And you will gain open trade. Iron for grain, steel for hides, medicines from the coast. We offer you access to the markets of the Gale Kingdom and the Free Cities League."
A voice laughed. Bruga's brother, mug raised.
"Then I want armor like my brother's!"
Laughter broke out, a few clansmen thumping tables.
Altan smiled faintly. "Same quality, yes. But only for those who pass the trials of the Stormguard."
A murmur passed through the warriors.
"For those who do not wish to serve, we still offer trade. Your cold steel, mined from your mountains, forged in my halls into the same armor our Stormguard wear. Your warriors will have what they need to face what's coming."
A long silence followed.
Then Bruga's father stepped forward. His heavy boots echoed across the stone. He looked to his sons, then to his clansmen, and finally to Altan.
"We will march with you," he said, voice gravel-deep. "My sons, and my clansmen. We will ride beneath your banner."
He raised his fist, calloused and scarred. "I am Ghoran Skarnulf, Blood of the Cliffvale, First Fang of the Iron Howl. Before clan and flame, I make this oath."
He turned so all could hear.
"We join the Stormguard. Not for coin. Not for promises. But because we smell war on the wind, and the only thing we love more than our mountains is battle. And battle, we crave."
A thunder of roars answered him. Clansmen shouting, fists raised, mugs slammed to the ground. A chorus of wild approval.
Then Ghoran looked back to Altan.
"What's your next task, Gale-born?"
Altan's eyes did not waver. "Tomorrow, we ride to the Blackroot Vale. To the Viraktai. We'll offer them what we offered you."
Ghoran fell silent, his expression unreadable.
Then he gave a single nod, voice low and thoughtful.
"Then I ride with you. I want to meet these shadowfolk myself. Better I stand at your side and see what this alliance might become."