Chapter 703: Masterclass In Tribal Governance!

The other nineteen delegates were no better, scuttling backward across the blood-spotted flagstones like crabs caught in an open tide pool.

The moment they crossed the threshold into the sunlight, they practically tumbled down the stone stairs, frantically rushing toward the outer palisade without looking back once.

As the heavy timber doors groaned shut behind them, cutting off the frantic scramble outside, the Great Lodge fell into dead, ringing silence.

On the lower platform, the Veynar elders stood with their shoulders locked back, their canes planted firmly into the dirt, their expressions completely wiped of any traditionalist defiance.

Elder Bran took a deep, silent breath, feeling the cool air slowly return to his lungs. He cautiously glanced up at the woman on the bone throne, his mind utterly awash with profound, reverent relief.

We really have got old, the old man thought to himself, his fingers gently caressing the polished head of his cane. Truly, an absolute marvel of tribal governance. Not a single drop of Veynar blood spilled, and five tribes brought into our granaries as permanent tributaries. A peerless, flawless sovereign.

She looked toward the lines of council elders standing below, whose postures were so stiff and reverent they looked like carved statues.

"Well?" Veylara asked, raising an eyebrow at Elder Bran. "Does the council have any objections to my arrangements?" It did seem like a question but from the look on her face, it was clear that if the answer was anything but satisfactory, it was truly a mystery if they would be able to walk out the gates alive.

Bran flinched, stepping forward half an inch and bowing his head in the most graceful, respectful arc his arthritic spine could manage.

"Objections?!" Bran squeaked with ferocious enthusiasm. "Never, Warchief! Truly, a stroke of ancestral brilliance! A masterclass in tribal governance! Flawless! Absolutely peerless! The ancestors themselves weep tears of joy at your supreme wisdom!"

Veylara’s lips twitched, fighting back a laugh at the old man’s sudden, shameless transformation.

"Good," she said, rising from the bone throne and smoothing the crimson leather of her tunic. "Then handle the aftermath perfectly.

"Warchief," Bran murmured, his old voice dripping with pure, unadulterated devotion. "The council stands in awe of your wisdom. The northern expanse has never seen such glorious restraint. Shall we... direct the scouts to inventory the new tributary routes?"

Veylara leaned back into the mammoth furs, a faint, genuinely amused smirk breaking the icy mask on her face.

Her sapphire eyes flicked over the thoroughly humbled old men, resting briefly on Zephyra, whose lips were twitching with suppressed laughter.

"Do as you wish, Elder Bran," Veylara said smoothly, her voice relaxing into its natural, sultry warmth. "Just make sure the tribute is stored in the new dry-houses. The winter will be cold, but for the Veynar... our hearths will burn brighter than the stars."

"Now go and do your things." She murmured, practically giving them an eviction order.

Of course they weren’t dumb enough to understand it, so one by one all hurried out too.

The heavy timber doors clicked shut behind the departing council, leaving only the soft crackle of glowing embers in the great central hearth.

Veylara did not immediately rise from the white mammoth furs.

She sat back, letting her head rest against the curved arch of the beast bones.

The razor-sharp, untouchable aura of the Fifth Layer sovereign slowly receded into the marrow of her bones, leaving behind the faint, human sigh of a woman whose shoulders had carried an entire mountain range for far too long.

High Shaman Zephyra leaned lightly on her staff, her milky eyes turning toward her with a faint, wry curve on her wrinkled lips.

"You pushed poor Bran half an inch into his grave today," Zephyra remarked, "The old fool looked ready to prostrate alongside the emissaries. If you flare that core at him one more time, we’ll be choosing a new elder before the first frost."

"Bran has a thick hide," Veylara murmured, her sapphire eyes gleaming with cool satisfaction as she reached down to adjust the leather cords of her tight dress.

"He has survived multiple wars and outlived three chieftains by being stubborn. A little fright won’t crack his shell... it just cleans out the rot. He won’t dare whisper about ancient precedents when the tribute begins to roll into our lower pits."

"And the tributes will roll," Zephyra agreed softly, moving with silent grace toward the low wooden table beside the hearth. She poured two small clay cups of hot, steeped herbal broth.

"Those outer clans were already half-broken before they even set foot in this hall. Seeing your savior lounge by the lumber like an idling beast of prey shook their spirits, and your display crushed whatever spine they had left. There will be no worry of rebellions from these tribes."

At the mention of the Champion, a subtle, involuntary warmth flickered in her heart.

They both were powerhouse, their senses far from being restricted by these walls. So the moment Sol gave these envoys a scare, they immediately noticed it.

Even though she felt warmed up by his gesture to break their arrogance before meeting her, she obviously won’t acknowledge it.

"He played his part," Veylara said, keeping her tone flat and measured, though she couldn’t stop her fingers from brushing the rim of her clay cup as Zephyra handed it to her.

"His part?" Zephyra chuckled, a knowing look flashed on her face. "He didn’t even stand up. The boy merely looked at them and chewed his fruit. Yet between his silent bloodthirst and your fifth-layer majesty, you two hold the northern basin in a tighter vise than our ancestors ever dreamed of."

The shaman paused, taking a slow sip of the scalding broth, her gaze tilting slightly toward the southern smoke-vents.

"Though... you must keep your eyes clear, child. Fear is a wall against the weak, but to the truly powerful beyond our borders, it is a blazing beacon in the dark.

Breaking the ancient ceiling of this land is not something that will remain a regional secret. When the frost thaws in the coming spring, the gaze of those far away aloof domains will drift toward the Great Orrath."