Chapter 690: He Was Going To Enjoy Every Second

Zephyra cleared her throat with an exaggerated gesture, from the shadows near the hearth table, breaking the lingering, charged air between them.

Reaching behind the low wooden chest beside the hearth, she picked up a heavy, leather-wrapped bundle resting against the stone mantle.

"If you two are quite finished being chummy," Zephyra said dryly, turning toward them with an amused smirk pulling at her mouth, "here is your blade. I had a scout salvage it out of the jungle where it was carelessly tossed aside without a care. I only hope you didn’t leave your wits behind in that clearing along with your trousers."

She extended both hands, offering the blade.

Even wrapped in treated hide, the blade gave off a cold, muted hum. The weapon had drunk deeply of Layer 4 warlord blood on the battlefield, and its sapphire-tinted edge seemed to buzz with residual slaughter, an eager, bloodthirsty counterweight to the fragrant cedar smoke lingering in the hall.

Sol let out a low chuckle, stepping forward and taking the weapon by its leather-wrapped hilt.

The familiar balance settled instantly into his palm, with an effortless, satisfying weight like an old friend.

"A man doesn’t forget his blade, Shaman. I was just busy wrestling half the wildlife of the Orrath bare-handed so your Warchief didn’t get gnawed on mid-breakthrough." Sol said, as he peeled the later wrapping, revealing the sharp sapphire edge of the blade, as it caught the flickering glow of the hearth fire in dull, deadly ripples.

He casually gave the blade a few slow, effortless spins before tying the leather belt by his side. "Though I’ve got to admit, after running around naked all night, feeling the cold weapon by my side again is almost a relief."

"Just a Shaman, indeed," Zephyra scoffed, showing a mock jealous look, though the faint curve of her lips gave her away. She turned her milky eyes toward Veylara.

"The sun is high, Warchief. The courtyard is overflowing with roast meat, fermented drinks, and young warriors trying to drink themselves into an early grave.

If you do not show your face soon, the elders will convince themselves you’ve ascended to the stars and left them with the cleanup."

Veylara set her empty wooden bowl down on the stone hearth, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist.

The warmth of the soup and Sol’s lingering touch had done wonders; the bone-deep fatigue that had clung to her after the breakthrough was receding, replaced by the steady, terrifying hum of her newly forged Fifth Layer foundation.

"Let them wait another moment," Veylara said, her sovereign composure snapping back into place. She turned toward Sol, her sapphire eyes gleaming with a mixture of command and private, unyielding possession.

"Go out there, Sol. Drink and eat to your heart’s content. Let the warriors buy you their toasts. But remember... at nightfall, you’re reporting back here."

"Reporting, huh?" Sol’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin, his crimson eyes holding hers without an ounce of deference. "I’ll make sure my report is deep and thorough, Chief."

Remembering his back to back relentless , back-to-back strokes... the stretch, the depth, the way he had driven into her without pause, Veylara’s nostrils flared slightly, fighting back another traitorous twitch of her lips. "Get out of the hall, brute."

Sol’s grin only deepened.

He inclined his head in a gesture that somehow managed to be both respectful and completely insolent at the same time, then turned and strode out of the hall without another word.

...

The moment he stepped out onto the high wooden platform of the Great Lodge, the deafening roar of the celebrations

The morning sun beat down warm and bright over the Great Orrath. Plumes of greasy, aromatic smoke billowed into the pale sky from a dozen massive roasting pits dug straight into the packed dirt of the square.

Whole boars, spiced stag flanks, and massive legs of bison sizzled over white-hot coals, fat dripping and hissing into the embers. Wooden casks of dark, fermented juices had been cracked open, splashing into horn cups as warriors sang crude, booming victory chants that rattled the palisades.

The instant Sol’s figure appeared at the top of the stairs... the Dreadwing blade strapped on his side, his broad chest clad in clean leather, eyes glinting red in the glare... the nearest circle of warriors went dead silent.

Then, Commander Thauren spotted him.

The towering commander hoisted a brimming wooden tankard high above his head, as his face split in a ferocious, roaring grin.

"THE SUPREME SPEAR!" Thauren bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"HAIL SOL!" a hundred throat-scorched voices answered in an explosive wave.

"HAIL THE REAPER OF THE PASS!"

Before Sol could even make it down the third step, a chaotic swarm of veterans, hunters, and young maidens surged toward the base of the dais.

Cups were thrust into the air, rough hands clapped against his shoulders and forearms, and the heavy, intoxicating stench of roast fat, fermented drinks, and raw tribal celebration swallowed him whole.

Down in the throng, Kira and Zeyra were already waiting near a newly broached barrel of spiced blackberry brew. Kira watched him push through the crowd with an amused roll of her eyes, though the bright, possessive light dancing in her gaze was impossible to miss.

Beside her, Zeyra leaned against a weapons rack, lifting a horn cup in a quiet, sardonic salute.

Sol caught the brimming horn of fermented mash thrust into his hand by a grinning squad captain. He took a massive, deep pull, letting the burning, sweet liquid scorch down his throat and ignite against the volcanic heat of his core.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, leaning back against the wooden railing of the square, watching his clan revel in the spoils of a shattered world.

Deep inside, beneath the roaring laughter and the clashing cups, Orphos continued its repairing work.

Sol grinned into the rim of his cup.

Months of peace, power, and conquered lands. He was going to enjoy every damn second of it.