Chapter 273: Imprisoned

“How dare you bring a filthy male into our sacred grounds? Have you lost your damn mind?!”

A woman’s voice reached Max through the darkness clouding his consciousness, growing clearer as her anger pulled him toward waking. She sounded young, though her voice was rough and almost as deep as a man’s. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids barely stirred, and the effort brought a dull ache through his head.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of for helping a stranger in need. Our mother taught us that, and we should follow her teachings.”

The second voice was softer, but its owner answered without hesitation. Max concentrated on their words as he tried to remember how he had ended up here. There had been a system window, crimson light, and the Creator’s promise that she would keep him from returning to his people. His last memory was of reaching toward Blackspire as the ground disappeared beneath him.

“She isn’t here anymore,” the rougher voice answered. “That traitor has no place in our sacred lands, and neither does the scum she wanted us to welcome. Men…”

A slap cracked through the air, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

“Do not speak about our mother like that! She gave everything for our people, everything for the future of these lands! She had a vision, but you and the others refused to understand what she was trying to achieve!”

Other voices joined the argument before her last words faded. Some tried to interrupt, while others spoke over one another, giving Max little chance to understand what they were saying. He could at least tell that a crowd had gathered nearby, and that his arrival had stirred a disagreement far older than whatever had happened to him.

He forced his eyes open just enough to see thick wooden bars crossing his vision. The wood was black as night, its rough surface pressing against his shoulder where his body had been cramped inside a cage. Beyond it, harsh sunlight struck his face, making him turn away before he could see much else.

The cage shifted with his movement. Through a gap beneath his hand, he caught a blurred glimpse of figures standing far below, and his fingers instinctively closed around a bar.

He was hanging above them.

Heat burned across his exposed skin, drying the wounds along his arms. The air tasted of dust, and the breath he drew felt painfully hot within his lungs. There was no crimson rain here, no cold wind against his face, nothing familiar enough to tell him how far the Creator had taken him.

Max reached for his magic. He could feel mana within his body, but it refused to move when he called upon it. He focused again, trying to draw even a little toward the hand gripping the bar, and felt the same stubborn stillness.

His gaze lowered toward the women beneath him. He could not tell whether his condition came from the Creator, the injuries he had suffered, or something these strangers had done while he was unconscious. Until he knew, struggling against the cage would only reveal how helpless he was.

“Stop fighting, both of you. Our guest appears to be waking.”

A third woman’s voice cut through the commotion. She sounded older, speaking with a steadiness that carried without needing to rise above the others. The argument stopped almost immediately, and the sudden silence left Max listening to the wood creaking beneath his weight.

He loosened his grip on the bar, aware that someone had been watching closely enough to notice it.

“Lower him. I need to see for myself what kind of disaster my dear sister has brought into our tribe this time.”

The rough voice returned, still thick with spite, though a faint tremor disturbed her words. Max listened more carefully. She had sounded certain of herself while arguing with her sister, but that certainty had weakened since the older woman spoke.

Movement stirred below, and the cage jolted before beginning to descend. Max braced his palm against its floor, keeping himself from sliding as the figures beneath him slowly grew clearer.

“Easy, girls, easy. This horse has yet to be tamed, and we do not know what kind of power he holds,” the older woman cautioned. “Arana, please bring me the golden herb mixture from my house.”

“Yes, High Shaman,” a very young voice answered, followed by hurried footsteps.

Max kept his head lowered. They did not know why his magic was silent, then, or at least the High Shaman was unwilling to trust that it would remain so. He held on to that small uncertainty while listening for what she intended to do with him.

“You’re going to heal him? Didn’t you just say—”

“Enough. Myrina was right. The chieftain never abandoned us. We were the ones who abandoned her.”

A few quiet murmurs followed, but nobody openly challenged her.

“We must learn to be more accepting,” the High Shaman continued. “Helping someone in need is the least we can do.”

Max looked toward the softer-voiced woman as the name settled in his mind. Myrina had brought him here, and Antiope was the sister who wanted him gone. Their mother appeared to be the absent chieftain, though whatever had happened to her divided even the people now watching his cage descend.

“This man will not stay here forever,” the High Shaman added. “Can you accept that much, Antiope?”

Max raised his eyes toward her. He needed that promise to mean something. If she intended to heal him and let him leave, then she might also be willing to tell him where he was and how to get beyond these sacred grounds.

For now, he kept his anger behind his teeth and waited for Antiope’s answer.

“That will depend on him. If his next words please me, perhaps I will allow him to remain at my feet until he heals. But if he proves troublesome, I don’t care what either of you thinks. His blood will paint my path to becoming the next chieftain.”