A warrior surged past—barefoot, bare-chested—his leather loincloth snapping as he lunged. Black and red paint ran down his face like war scars. His jaw was tight. The bone piercings in his ears rattled as he moved. In his hand, a bone knife curved like a fang, already stained with blood. He didn't pause. Just rage and muscle — like death meant nothing to him anymore. In a single strike, he slit the intruder's throat. The body dropped, lifeless, and in the same motion, he spun and severed another's head clean from the shoulders.
He turned to Nine. His chest heaved, and blood ran down his arms. His eyes, wide and urgent, locked onto hers.
"You must save yourself—GO, NOW!" he shouted. His voice cracked at the end—not from weakness, but from knowing he might never see her again.
Nine didn't think—she ran. Her feet pounded the ground. Her breath was ragged. But her mind screamed louder than her panic.
Cowards run. But maybe even cowards would've stayed for this. She pressed her hand to her chest—felt her heart pound like a war drum.
"You're Nine," she whispered aloud. "You finish what others start… or you die trying."
She skidded to a stop, heart hammering in her chest. Then she turned and dashed into the woods.
She jumped, caught a low branch, and climbed, hands gripping the bark, pulling herself higher and higher until she reached the top of the tallest tree. She crouched on the thick branch, high above the chaos.
From up there, the view opened: The sea glimmered beyond. Mountains loomed in the dark. And below — her village burned.
She whispered, "How did it all come to this..."
The moon was bright enough to light the scene below. She saw the invaders clearly now. They weren't dressed like ordinary raiders. Their clothes were layered and muted, made for stealth and speed—tight to the body, yet flowing like a shadow. Knives hung from their belts. Strange tools. Not weapons you'd recognize—but ones meant to kill.
"Nine, look!" One's voice called from just below her.
She turned quickly. He was pointing to the sea.
Out in the distance, shapes moved across the water—dark, massive.
Her mouth fell open. Her stomach tightened.
"Are those... sharks?" One asked, eyes narrowing.
Nine didn't answer right away. Her breath caught in her throat. The ocean didn't ripple. It split.
Nine shook her head slowly. "No. They're battleships. And they came ready."
Five ships approached the shore like monsters from the deep, their prows cutting clean lines through the water.
One swallowed hard. "What are we going to do now?"
He looked shaken. The usual calm in him was gone, replaced with something raw. He'd fought before—but not like this. Not against ships and foreign assassins.
"I'm going to the Earthlings," Nine said, already climbing down.
"The Earthlings?" he caught up with her at the base of the tree. "Nine—the Chief is dead. They won't fight for us, they turned their back on us long ago."
She turned to him, face set. "I'm not giving them a choice."
One stared at her, searching her face for something—doubt, maybe. There was none.
"Take Dagi with you," he said.
Before she could respond, an eagle's cry echoed above them. The great bird swooped down, circled once, and landed beside them.
Nine walked to Dagi and mounted smoothly.
One stepped back. His eyes didn't leave her.
Without a word, the eagle snapped its wings open and kicked off the ground. In seconds, they were in the air. One stood alone below, watching until she disappeared into the night.
---
The children sat huddled beneath the thick canopy, their tiny bodies pressed close, some clutching one another, others holding sticks lit with fire. Their faces were painted with pale blue lines—a sacred birthmark of protection. Animal-tooth earrings hung gently from their ears, and their necks were laced with tangled cords of beads. Barefoot and bruised, their legs were wrapped in hide—light enough to run in, tough enough to endure the cold.
The wind whispered above the trees, then—
Thud.
Seven dropped from a branch overhead, landing with a crouch. His chest rose and fell, but his breath was calm. "Path's clear," he said, glancing back toward the dense woods behind him.
Eight held his torch tighter and gave a short nod. "Then we move."
The group turned toward the narrow crack in the earth—an old cave mouth, covered in vines and dust. One by one, they entered. The flame from their torches flickered against the walls as they stepped cautiously down the stone path, deeper into darkness.
The tunnel curved and narrowed until they reached a massive stone door, silent and ancient. Beside it, carved from the wall, was a small statue—hands lifted, holding a bowl-shaped offering cup. Its face was smoothed by time. Mysterious. Waiting.
Three stepped forward quietly. With a swift pull of his bone knife, he cut his palm, his expression tight as the blood welled. He let the drops fall into the cup.
A deep rumble rolled beneath their feet.
The stone door groaned. Slowly, the cracks widened as the door shifted open. Dust trickled from the edges. Once the opening was wide enough, they entered—one after the other.
The door began to shut behind them.
Five hesitated. His voice trembled as he turned to look back. "Do you think the others will be okay?"
Seven's jaw tightened. He didn't look back. "No," he said simply. "I just hope we survive the night."
A soft sniffle came from one of the children at the back. A little boy—no older than four—pulled on the sleeve of the older girl beside him.
"Will Mama be inside the temple?" he whispered, voice breaking.
The girl didn't blink. Her eyes were distant, sad, tiring and empty. "Mama's gone."
The boy's lips trembled, but he nodded, wiping his face with the back of his wrist. His small shoulders heaved once. Then he went quiet.
Eight turned his head slightly but didn't speak. He just stared ahead, firelight dancing in his eyes as he muttered under his breath—a prayer, or maybe a warning.
They were safe for now.
But none of them felt it.
---
The trees stood thick around them, branches clawing at the moonlight. Smoke from the village fire drifted in faint tendrils, masking scent and sound.
Two crouched low behind a fallen log, his chest still rising fast from the sprint. Sweat mixed with the war paint on his brow. Beside him, Six was calm, drawing his bowstring with practiced ease.
"Four," Two muttered.
"Five," Six corrected, eyes scanning above the brush. "One's trailing."
Footsteps crunched the dry leaves. The invaders moved in slow, careful steps—blades drawn, unaware they were already inside the trap.
Six raised a hand. The signal.
Snap.
The hidden snare triggered. One enemy vanished beneath the earth, his scream silenced by bone spikes below.
The rest spun around, panicked. That's when Two launched himself from the shadows, a curved bone-blade in each hand.
He slammed into the nearest intruder, tackled him to the dirt, and stabbed once—twice—until the man stopped breathing.
Another raised a blade, but Six's arrow found his throat before the metal left its sheath.
Two rose, blood streaked down his forearms. "Three down."
"One left," Six said, notching another arrow.
The last man turned to flee. Two darted forward—
—but Six loosed the arrow before he got there. It struck the runner's leg, pinning him to a tree.
The man howled. Reached for the shaft.
Two walked up slowly, breathing hard. He didn't stab this time. He looked him in the eyes.
"Go," he said. "Limp. Bleed. But go."
The invader blinked through pain.
"Tell them we own these woods," Six added. His voice was calm. Final.
The man pulled himself free and staggered off, dragging the arrow behind him.
Two wiped his blades on a fallen cloak. "We should head west. Circle back."
Six nodded. "If they came from the sea, they're not done yet."
---
The eagle landed on the dead ridge and let out a low cry.
Nine slid down from its back, her feet crunching against brittle shale. The air was different here—heavy and still, as if even the wind didn't dare move.
Before her stood the mouth of the Vale—an ancient scar cut deep into the mountain, smooth walls towering like a temple. She stepped in.
Her breath echoed.
The deeper she walked, the darker it became—until stone eyes opened.
They weren't statues.
They were watching her.
Figures emerged one by one, peeling from the walls like shadows shedding dust. Giants. Skins of granite, marked by centuries. Their veins pulsed faintly with dull orange light, like magma too tired to rise.
One of them stepped forward. Taller than the rest. The stone in his chest bore a symbol—a cracked circle. Skin like the mountain—cracked and gray, veined with molten orange beneath. His eyes glowed like twin embers. His mouth, a chiseled groove that spoke without breath.
"You come again, Soulborn," he said.
Nine didn't flinch. But her throat tightened.
"I didn't the first time," she answered. "That was my mother."
The Earthling blinked. Slowly. Like he didn't need to.
"And she was turned away."
"I won't be," Nine said. She tried to hold his stare, but her heart beat too loud. Too fast. Don't break now. Don't blink first.
Another giant rose from the stone behind him. Then another, and another—ten, twenty—emerging from walls, outcroppings, even the floor itself. Silent. Watching. As if judgment had a face.
"We are not your army," the first Earthling said, flatly.
"No," Nine said, stepping forward, hands open. "You're more than that."
Silence stretched. The heat from their veins pulsed in the cold.
"Then why are you here?" the older one asked.
Nine took a breath.
"The village burns. Our warriors fight with bone and rope. But it's not just a raid. Not this time. There are ships—five—coming in from the sea. Huge. With weapons that burn like stars and blades that vanish into air."
The Earthlings didn't respond. But something behind their stillness shifted.
"And you believe they came for you?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But five warships? They didn't cross the sea for bone-wielding tribes. They came for the mountain. For something more. For everything."
A younger Earthling stirred. "You assume."
"I do," Nine said. "Because if I wait for certainty, I'll be the last one left alive."
The first Earthling's voice was heavy. "Last time we broke our stillness, we shattered. We fought alongside flesh. We lost kin. For mortals who buried their dead and forgot our names."
"You fear for your kind?" one Earthling said.
Nine hesitated. Just for a second.
"No," she whispered. "I fear for everything. My kind won't survive. But neither will the roots beneath your stone."
Still, silence.
"You expect loyalty because you bleed?" the first Earthling asked.
"No," Nine replied. "I expect resistance. Because you remember."
Another Earthling laughed. Not kindly.
"Your mother came with pride. You come with desperation."
"I'm not asking," Nine said, voice cracking. "Help us—or bury our bones with yours. Either way, they're coming."
There was a pause. Long. Endless.
Then, a hand rose. From stone to sky.
One of the Earthlings stepped forward. Then two. Three. Until seven of them stood apart.
The leader's eyes narrowed.
"Only these will go," he said. "No more."
Nine nodded, but her knees nearly buckled. She blinked fast—once, twice. Don't let them see you break.
"That's enough," she said.
The leader stepped closer. Close enough to see the tightness in her jaw. The fear behind her fire.
"You still carry your mother's scent, Soulborn," he said. "But you walk heavier than she did."
Then he stepped back into stone and vanished.
The rest followed—except the seven.
Nine turned, breath shuddering.
She wanted to fall to her knees. To cry. But there was no time for either