Gromm looked at Orkus with hatred, but also with something he had never felt before: fear.
—Are you going to kill me? —he spat—. My brother will tear you apart!
Orkus raised the axe.
"The strong rule…", the voice whispered in his mind.
—Listen! —Orkus bellowed, addressing the crowd—. I have received a vision! A message from the moon gods! —His voice, rough but firm, echoed in the square—. Our people do not have to remain beasts, hunting and raiding like animals. We can unite! We can conquer! We can become masters of these lands! I will be the one to lead you!
The words would have sounded hollow if not for the brutal display they had just witnessed. Gromm, the second-in-command, lay defeated at his feet. The young man who had tried to intervene was still unconscious. And Orkus, with his bloodied wing and heaving chest, stood like a nightmare figure under the moon.
Some looked at him with fear. Others, with a glint of respect. No one dared to speak.
Orkus lowered the axe toward Gromm's neck.
—Wait.
A spear crossed the air from above, straight as an arrow. Orkus turned the axe just in time; the impact sent sparks flying and nearly tore the weapon from his hands.
He looked up.
A figure descended from the sky like a meteor, its black wings folded to gain speed. He landed in the center of the square with a crash that kicked up dust and stones.
He was a stocky man, middle-aged, his chest crossed with old and new scars. His eyes burned with murderous fury, and in his right hand, a second spear spun with deadly slowness. His presence imposed silence even on the crowd.
The leader had arrived.
Karg, chief of this branch of the Dark Feather clan. Older brother of Gromm. The most feared warrior for a hundred leagues around.
—You have wounded my brother —he said, his voice deep as thunder—. You will die for it, Orkus.
Gromm, still on the ground, smiled weakly.
—Kill him, brother…
Orkus swallowed. The fight against Gromm had left him exhausted, his injured wing barely allowing him to stand. And Karg was a different beast, incomparable.
But he could not back down. Not now.
—The moon gods have chosen me —he said, raising his axes—. I will not surrender!
Karg did not bother to reply. He attacked.
It was like a gale. His spear moved at a speed Orkus could barely follow, each strike loaded with years of experience and unmatched brute force. Orkus blocked, dodged, retreated. His axes clashed again and again against the metal of the spear, but each impact made his arms tremble.
—You are weak! —Karg roared, landing a blow that knocked one of Orkus's axes away.
Orkus fell onto his back, rolled, and barely managed to dodge a thrust that sank into the ground where his head had been. He got up as best he could, with only one axe, gasping.
Karg advanced slowly, his spear dripping blood from a minor wound Orkus had managed to inflict.
—The moon gods chose you? —he mocked—. You can't even handle me.
He attacked again. The spear traced an impossible arc, and Orkus, exhausted, could not dodge it completely. The blade opened his side, a deep cut that made him scream.
He fell to his knees.
Karg approached, confident. He raised his spear for the final blow.
—Goodbye, madman.
At that instant, Orkus's instinct screamed. His wings, even the injured one, tensed. With a superhuman effort, he lunged to the side. The spear grazed his head. And he, with the axe he had left, cut through the air.
The edge reached Karg's right wing.
It was not a deep cut, but enough to do substantial damage. The tendon controlling the wing's movement partially tore, and Karg roared in pain and surprise, his wing folding involuntarily.
Orkus did not wait. Pushing off with all the strength he had left, he spread his wings and launched into the sky.
Karg tried to pursue him, but his injured wing would not respond. He took two steps, tried to take off, and fell back to the ground, cursing.
—COWARD! —he bellowed—. When I find you, I will tear your wings off with my own hands!
But Orkus was already lost among the clouds, his black silhouette silhouetted against the moon.
The crowd in the square remained silent, looking alternately at their wounded leader and at the point in the sky where the supposed chosen one of the gods had disappeared.
---
The days in Spring City continued their monotonous course for Enoc.
At least until he found the city's archive chamber.
The place smelled of stone and dust. Shelves of dark wood lined up in perfect rows, loaded with stone tablets recording the clan's history, commercial transactions, and other records.
There, among the shelves, he saw for the first time a certain woman who caught his attention.
She was a young woman with dark hair pulled back in a simple braid that fell over her shoulder. She wore a gray tunic, stained with dust on the sleeves and hem, a sign of hours of work among the archives. Her wings, a warm brown like tree bark, were neatly folded behind her back, and her hands moved carefully as she handled the tablets, placing them in their spots with delicacy.
Enoc stopped at the threshold, hesitant. The young woman, noticing his presence, looked up. She showed no surprise, only a quiet curiosity, as if she were used to unexpected visitors.
—You're Enoc, aren't you?
—Yes —he replied, somewhat disconcerted that she recognized him—. And you are…?
—My name is Avelia. —She tilted her head slightly—. I've been organizing these records for as long as I can remember. Are you looking for something in particular, or just fleeing another assembly?
Enoc could not help but smile. It was the first time in days that someone had spoken to him without that mixture of pity and superficial respect he found everywhere.
—A bit of both —he admitted.
Avelia nodded, as if the answer satisfied her, and continued with her work. But as she moved to the next shelf, she left a space beside her, a tacit invitation.
Enoc hesitated for a moment, then entered and sat on the stone bench attached to the wall. He said nothing. He simply watched as she arranged the tablets, her fingers occasionally sliding over the inscriptions.
Several minutes passed in silence. A comfortable silence, strangely.
—You're not what I imagined the governor's son would be like —Avelia said suddenly, without stopping looking at the tablets.
—And what did you imagine? —Enoc asked, genuinely curious.
She turned to him, and for the first time, a slight smile appeared on her lips.
—Arrogant. Loud. With that air of superiority that those who have never had to work have.
Enoc shrugged.
—I try… not to be.
She gave him a skeptical look, then returned to her work.
—You can stay if you want —she said, pointing to a pile of disorganized tablets—. But if you're going to be here, at least help. Separate those by date. The oldest at the back.
Enoc obeyed without protest. And so he spent his first afternoon in the archives, organizing tablets alongside a young woman with brown wings who did not seem impressed by his lineage.