Chapter 274: Don’t Mistake My Gratitude for Submission

Max almost smiled at Antiope’s response. There was something amusing about how confidently she spoke of keeping him at her feet, as though she had found a wounded dog she could beat into obedience. As far as he was concerned, she had brought a lion into her cage and mistaken its exhaustion for submission.

He kept that amusement from his face, allowing his gaze to remain dull as though her threat had barely reached him. For now, he needed the High Shaman’s medicine and enough time to understand why his mana refused to obey. Answering Antiope’s insults would accomplish little while he could barely hold himself upright.

She could enjoy the silence and believe whatever she wanted about it.

Once his strength returned, he intended to leave. If they tried to keep him here, he was prepared to flatten the entire place to make his way out. His fingers slowly loosened around the wooden bar as he forced himself to wait, listening for the girl returning with the herbs.

He needed to know where he was, how far these lands lay from Blackspire, and whether anyone here knew a way to cross that distance. His women were somewhere beyond his reach, along with whatever remained of the people who had trusted him. Some might still be waiting for their king, and every moment spent trapped in this cage was another moment he could not reach them.

Max would ask his questions once he could speak without revealing how much effort it cost him. If they answered, he could take the information and leave. If they knew the way home and deliberately withheld it, he was willing to torture it out of them.

The thought came easily enough that he barely paused over it. His desperation had left little room for anything beyond recovering his strength and finding a way back.

The cage door slowly opened, and the old woman stooped to enter. Max’s vision was still blurred, but he could make out her dark skin and long white hair, which remained surprisingly thick despite the lines marking her face. She knelt beside him, her observant dark eyes studying his expression before moving toward his injuries.

Max held her gaze without moving, refusing to shrink away when she reached toward him.

“You’re confident, aren’t you? Do not try anything. We might seem like a simple tribe of women to you, but in your condition, even our weakest warrior could kill you.”

Her fingers pressed against his bare chest, resting there for several moments before her expression changed. Max watched her eyes narrow with concentration, though he could not tell what she felt beneath her palm.

“A reasonably powerful magic soul, yet so well tempered… so pure.” She looked at his face again, more carefully this time. “Perhaps I misjudged you. You do have a reason for that confidence.”

Arana appeared beside the open door, carrying the herbs the High Shaman had requested. She looked no older than twelve and shared the older woman’s dark complexion and snow-white hair. Seeing the same color upon someone so young made Max realize that the High Shaman’s hair might have little to do with her age. Their features reminded him of some of the Latina women he had known in his old world, though the resemblance told him nothing about these people.

“High Shaman, do you know anything about where he might have come from? Or why his skin is so pale?”

Myrina circled the cage as she spoke, briefly entering Max’s field of vision. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, with full curves that remained noticeable even through his exhaustion, but her watchful expression held his attention longer. Her eyes followed the movement of his hands before returning to his face. Whatever had driven her to save him, she was clearly prepared to react if he made a wrong move.

“He might be from lands far beyond the Golden Ocean,” the High Shaman answered, accepting the herbs from Arana. “There are records of people with his complexion reaching our shores, but they were all dead by the time the waves washed their bodies onto the sand.”

“Where did you say you found this one?” the old woman asked.

“The Tiger Overlord Mountains. Very far from the ocean.”

“Is that so?”

The High Shaman studied Max for another moment. He kept his expression still, his gaze lowering toward the golden herbs in her hands.

“You might as well be a fallen star, then, stranger.”

She placed the herbs inside a mortar and crushed them with a clay pestle, working them into a thick golden paste. Their fragrance reached Max before she brought the mixture closer, strangely sweet and almost heavenly at first. Then a sharp, spicy heat filled his nose, making his eyes water.

He tried to turn his head, but the first sneeze escaped before he could pull away. Another followed immediately, tugging painfully at his wounded chest.

Laughter spread through the women gathered around the cage. Some leaned closer to look at him, their earlier murmurs briefly replaced by amused voices, while the High Shaman watched with a small smile. Max blinked through the tears in his eyes, wondering whether she had deliberately held the mortar close enough to provoke him.

“Do you have a name? Can you understand us?”

She spread the paste across one of his wounds, her fingers moving carefully over the damaged skin. Max drew a breath to answer, but his throat felt scraped raw.

“M…”

The sound caught before he could finish. He swallowed, trying to find enough moisture to speak, and the High Shaman glanced toward Arana.

“Bring him some water.”

“Why waste it on him? His name doesn’t matter.” Antiope laughed from outside the cage. “I’ll call him Pet. That should suit a filthy creature like him.”

Several women laughed with her, and Max’s body stiffened beneath the High Shaman’s hand. His eyes shifted toward Antiope’s voice, the brief amusement around him becoming harder to endure with every passing moment.

The old woman noticed the change. Her fingers paused against his chest before continuing their work, though she kept a closer watch on his face. Antiope would win if the stranger tried to fight her in his present state, but that did little to ease her concern. Healing him would become considerably harder if either of them decided to turn these insults into a confrontation.

Arana soon returned with a flask made from what appeared to be animal hide. The High Shaman took it and supported Max’s head as she brought the opening to his lips.

Cold water entered his mouth, easing the dryness enough that he swallowed greedily. A little escaped down his chin as he tried to drink faster, and the old woman adjusted her grip, keeping the flask steady until he had emptied it. Even then, his thirst remained, though he could finally draw a breath without feeling his throat scrape.

“Thanks,” he said as she lowered the flask. His voice was hoarse, but the words came clearly enough for those nearby to hear. “Name’s Max. I’ll repay your kindness, but don’t mistake my gratitude for submission. That will never happen.”