Chapter 691: Roaring Heart Of A Paramount Chiefdom

The celebration stretched through two sunrises before the haze of sweet brew and roasted meat gave way to something far more enduring: the rhythmic, purposeful hum of an awakening giant.

The drunken euphoria of the feast completely evolved into a frantic, purposeful vitality.

Over the next few days, the entire Veynar tribe came alive with an infectious, buzzing momentum, caught in an intoxicating balance of ceaseless hustle and absolute security.

The morning mist no longer hid the fear of an impending raid; it parted under the warm autumn sun to reveal wide-open ironwood gates, through which an endless stream of people flowed like a river fed by mountain runoff.

From dawn until long after the night-fires were banked, the Great Square and every thoroughfares were choked with constant, purposeful movement.

The quiet forest tribe that had once huddled behind defensive timber walls had transformed into the roaring heart of a Paramount Chiefdom .

Long caravans trundled through the palisades in never-ending convoys. They hauled the confiscated wealth of the shattered Coalition: bundles of prime pelts cured with fat, dense bales of mountain herbs dried for winter, countless animal bones, various exotic minerals and other strategic resources.

Hundreds of captured Coalition warriors were marched down the main thoroughfare under the watchful gaze of the Spirit warriors.

Their weapons were gone, their armor stripped down to rough linen tunics, and their wrists were bound with thick hemp cords.

Yet there was remarkably little weeping or frantic defiance among the ranks.

First of it was the fear of black reaper Sol, they didn’t dare to show any excessive movement to draw his attention and secondly, especially the warriors, they had seen the sky cracking and heavens being furious.

They had felt the bone-crushing, suffocating wave of an authority that was even more powerful than Layer 4 that had washed over their tribes too.

After rampaging through their ancestral records they knew exactly what it was, it was ascension to Layer 5.

And even though they knew that ascension to Layer 5 was impossible, looking at the cheerful confident look on the Veynar people, and combined with that anticlimactic retreat of heavenly authority they felt that impossible had happened.

To these primitive warriors, defeat against another Layer 4 chief was an insult that demanded blood and bitter vendettas after all they knew the strength and powers of Layer 4, as even though they were strong, unbelievably strong, but since they also had Layer 4 warlords.

They knew that they were still defeatable if you swarmed and exhausted them enough, though even that was nothing less of a miracle. But still they had a chance.

But defeat against an ascended sovereign who held the sky in her palm was simply the decree of the gods.

And in front of god, even the mere idea of revenge was a blasphemy, deserving of annihilation of their tribe.

So, they were extra careful and kept their heads down, their shoulders sloped, and their feet moving in silent, hopeful submission.

And it’s not all bad, if they could be under the protection of a Layer 5 sovereign, their tribes didn’t have to ever fear extinction or other crises, and they didn’t think that Veynar would keep them locked forever, knowing that Veynar had a Layer 5 sovereign, they had already abandoned their previous tribal or racial beliefs and decided to fully devote themselves to the Veynar, after all in this world strength was the law.

Veylara’s administration was also ruthless, swift, and meticulously executed.

She did not slaughter the captured innocent men, nor did she toss them into deep pits to rot and breed disease.

Instead, under the watchful direction of Elder Harkan and the senior squad leaders, the prisoners were divided systematically.

The ones who were previously warriors were put to heavy work of clearing the roads through the jungle, and cutting massive logs to fortify the newly expanded perimeter.

The skilled craftsmen, pelt-dressers, and bone-carvers were escorted straight to the artisan quarter to augment the tribe’s production.

Small cohorts of high-value captives... the children and wives of fallen warlords, powerful warriors, and respected elders... were escorted through the gates under the watchful eye .

These high-value hostages were not thrown into iron cages. Instead, they were housed in guarded lodges near the inner ring, treated with stern courtesy, fed clean broth, and given the run of the courtyards under the watchful eyes of Tala’s silent scouts.

Their presence was a silent, unshakeable leash; so long as they ate Veynar food under Veylara’s gaze, their kin in the distant foothills would never dare raise a rogue banner against the new sovereign.

A single missed tribute or a stray arrow fired at a Veynar patrol, however, meant the heads of those same kin would be mounted on the spikes before dusk.

Even though it was a bit excessive considering her strength, Veylara didn’t wanted to take any chance, and she knew that comfort and idleness was the biggest enemy of ambition, if she kept them well fed, in a few winters they’ll rot away without provoking any commotion.

Yet for all the captives brought in, an equal volume of resources rolled straight back out.

Heavy timber sledges laden with sacks of dried food, smoked venison, cured salt-blocks, and fresh construction timber were dispatched south and west.

Seasoned Veynar veterans, accompanied by squads of disciplined spearmen, marched out to take over the conquered strongholds.

Their mission was clear: rebuild the smashed palisades, establish direct Veynar law, audit the winter storehouses, and distribute enough sustenance to ensure the conquered commoners looked to the Great Lodge for survival rather than rebellion.

Veylara understood the harsh realities of the Great Orrath: an empty belly remembered its old flag, but a belly filled with Veynar food quickly forgot the dead chieftains who had dragged them into an unwinnable slaughter.

Down near the central weapon yards, the steady, rhythmic thunk-clang of stone masons and blacksmiths echoed through the afternoon air.

Teshar’s forge lane was practically engulfed in grey woodsmoke and shimmering heat. Stripped to the waist, soot caked across his broad chest, the master smith was hammering out countless new weapons and armors barking at two breathless apprentices who were hauling dried timber.