Chapter 633: Alliance

When Valen had first been granted the title

Governor of Salthold

by the prince himself, the honor had not come alone. Alongside the sealed writ of appointment had been a letter—thin parchment scrawled with his grace’s tight, deliberate hand—outlining the policies Valen was to uphold now that he stood as the Crown’s spearhead in a land still raw and uncertain.

Chief among those instructions was the directive to

maintain and cultivate diplomatic ties

with any tribal faction that could be turned to their cause. No matter how small, no matter how strange their customs—if they were willing to trade loyalty or resources for the Crown’s favor, they were to be courted like nobles at a spring tourney.

Second only to diplomacy was the Prince’s obsession with

self-sufficiency

. Salthold, far from home and at the mercy of narrow sea routes, had to survive on its own stores. A feat easier said than done. The land around the hold was a harsh mistress—rocky, windswept, stubborn.

It yielded little but mossy rootweed and cold rain. The few resources they could depend on came from fishing along the grey coast and from barter with herders who offered milk, cheese, and the occasional stringy lamb.

Crops were another matter. Only potatoes had shown promise in the stony soil, and ironically,

those

had been banned by the Prince himself ,as initially the Chorsi’s reliance on their trade was caused by their lack of food, and Alpheo had worried that introducing potatoes would have made them self-sufficient.

Of course, Valen was already drafting a letter to repeal the ban. Now that the Chorsi had retaken their ancestral hills, their livestock would multiply, their morale would rise, and—more importantly—they would no longer risk famine. Which meant that ban would now be utterly useless, which he hoped that the prince could be made to see.

Still, Valen’s thoughts returned to the

first

order from his liege: diplomacy.

And this? This sudden offer of alliance from Varaku was not merely a gesture of gratitude—it was a pivot in tribal politics. One that the prince would surely see as a crown jewel in Valen’s service.

Yet Valen was not a diplomat. He was a soldier—a planner, a coordinator of men and steel.

He straightened himself and bowed slightly, careful to meet Varaku’s gaze without challenge or condescension.

"Great Chieftain," he began with as much polish as his martial tongue could manage, "I am honored to see such goodwill offered between our peoples. Truly, it brings me great satisfaction to know that our presence here is not merely tolerated—but welcomed."

Varaku inclined his head, a quiet acknowledgment.

"However," Valen continued, carefully measuring each word, "I am but a commander, not a negotiator. Matters of treaty and alliance are the purview of Sevarim. But I will carry your words with full honor, and you have my word that your offer will be treated not only with respect, but with eagerness. What remains is only the shaping of terms."

The great chieftain nodded again, calm and unreadable.

But something gnawed at Valen. The bow, the proposal, the friendliness—it was all

welcome

, of course, but it felt... sudden. Too sudden, perhaps. It was rare for a war-chief like Varaku—proud, territorial, tested in blood—to so quickly lower his guard.

Valen tilted his head, studying the man across from him.

"If I may ask..." he said carefully, his voice no longer diplomatic but curious, "is there a particular reason for this change in tone between us?"

He paused. "Do not mistake me—I am grateful, truly. But to move from distant allies to something closer... that is no small shift. And if we are to move forward not just as neighbors, but as partners—true partners—it would ease both our minds to understand what has prompted this bridge between us."

Varaku didn’t answer at once.

His thick fingers tapped in slow rhythm on his knee—drumming not in impatience, but in thought. His massive frame remained utterly still, as if carved from the stone of the very hills they’d just reclaimed.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"As you well know," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "what we have just achieved can be called a great victory."

He paused.

"But it is not a

decisive

one."

The words, when translated, made Valen frown. His brow drew tight, eyes narrowing slightly.

Not decisive?

What in the world did the man mean? Their enemy had been shattered—dispersed, slaughtered, captured. The last of their resistance had been broken on the bloodied slopes of the hill. What was there left to fight?Their bones?

Varaku must have seen the confusion in his guest’s expression, for he continued, voice heavier now.

"You have to understand... our retreat from our homeland, the shame we bore when we fled these hills—it was not born of fear of the ones we just broke." His tone was steady, but there was a tension underneath, coiled like a bowstring. "These ones..." he gestured toward the door, where beyond it, distant and terrible, the tortured screams of the captured young chieftain echoed faintly through the wooden walls, "...these were only a part of the enemy."

Valen’s head tilted slightly, his eyes sharpening with sudden awareness.

"They are of the

Duskwindai

, yes," Varaku said, leaning forward now, elbows planted on his knees, "but they are not the whole of them."

He took a slow breath—perhaps weighing whether to speak further—and then pushed forward.

"The boy screaming outside... he is the

youngest

son of their Great Chief. He was given only a portion of the tribe’s people... and a fraction of their herds. That is how the Duskwindai move—like a flood breaking into rivulets, sent outward to claim pastureland, to consume."

His lip curled slightly. Not in disgust, but in memory.

"Their herds are vast—beyond reckoning. To feed them, they sprawl across the land like a creeping fire, burning up what they find. They divide themselves—smaller groups, moving fast, seizing territory wherever the grass is thick and the rivers run sweet. And any tribe caught in their path is faced with a choice: bend and work for them, or be broken."

He held Valen’s gaze now. There was no posturing in it—no bluster. Only the cold weight of truth.

"We chose to

flee

. Others... did not."

The room fell quiet for a moment, broken only by the occasional crack of firewood and the muffled, distant howls of pain from outside.

Valen’s jaw had tightened, his expression no longer puzzled but grave. What he had taken for a triumphant ending was, in fact, only the

beginning

. What he had believed to be the fall of the enemy was merely the slaying of one of its

limbs

. The heart, the head, the arms—they were still out there.

Still hungry.

And now, realization struck deeper.

Was that why they sought an alliance?

Not out of gratitude—but necessity? Did they want the prince’s armies tied to them now, entangled in this blood-feud with giants?

Was he to be drawn into a war that had not yet

truly

begun?

His thoughts raced behind a mask of composure.

Valen’s lips parted slightly, about to speak—

—but Varaku held up a hand. Not rudely. Calmly. With certainty.

"Do not misunderstand me," he said firmly, his voice measured. "We know not how far your prince’s land lies from here—how many rivers, how many days of sail, or what sort of beasts roam your forests."

He leaned back then, just slightly, his eyes narrowing with a tired kind of clarity.

"But even we can see that the help you offer—

cannot

be limitless. No ruler would send an army across oceans for the sake of a war that is not his own. That, even we understand."

Valen exhaled quietly through his nose, his shoulders softening a touch. The tension that had begun coiling in his spine began to ease—

finally,

he thought, a leader with perspective.

"What we

do

want," Varaku continued, "is not an army."

He paused, his eyes steady and intent. "We want

steel.

And minds like yours."

Valen blinked, uncertain. "Steel... and minds?" he asked slowly, cautiously.

Varaku gestured loosely with one hand, circling the air between them.

"You know better ways to fight than we do," he said plainly. "It was

your

counsel that broke the enemy . It was

your

idea to strike from both ends with armored spears. You even told us to leave open a false path of retreat—to

trap

them as they ran."

A ghost of admiration passed over the man’s hard face. "We would have charged like bulls. You had us hunt instead."

He tapped a callused finger against his temple. "That... is what we want."

He paused, letting the words settle in the smoke-filled hut.

"Of course," he added, "any warriors your prince can spare are welcome, and will be treated with respect. But we do not expect you to send your younglings to bleed dry or strip your homeland of defenders. That would be foolish—and we are

not

fools."

Valen felt his weight settle more comfortably into his stance. That cold fear—that they’d try to tie down his prince’s forces in some unwinnable conflict far from home—faded like mist under the morning sun. No desperate plea. No grand delusion. Just a request for knowledge, and steel.

Something they

could

give.

He gave a short nod, his tone more relaxed now. "That is... a far more reasonable request, Great Chieftain."

Just as the room fell again into a brief, content silence, Valen’s mind pulled him elsewhere—

the screaming.

It had lessened now, but not disappeared. Hoarse, guttural, drawn-out cries, still reaching through the wooden walls like the echoes of some wounded animal. The young chieftain.

Valen furrowed his brow and looked toward the flap of the hut, then back at Varaku.

"I... nearly forgot," he murmured. "The boy outside—the son of the Duskwindai chief. Perhaps..."

He hesitated. The idea felt strange even as he spoke it aloud, but something in him insisted on it.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to

keep

him. As a prisoner. A hostage, maybe. You said he’s his son."

Varaku’s expression barely shifted. He blinked once. Slowly. Then tilted his head as though he hadn’t understood the suggestion.

"A hostage?" he repeated, puzzled. "Why?"

Valen opened his mouth, only to falter.

Why?

Because that’s what one did, wasn’t it? Because sons were useful. Princes even more. Because—

"Well..." he started again. "Because he’s valuable. His father—he may want him back. Use him as leverage, or at least keep him alive for... negotiation."

Varaku’s thick brows slowly drew together. The confusion on his face wasn’t feigned. It wasn’t even skeptical. It was

genuine.

"I said he is his son," Varaku said evenly, "but he lost the battle. And his warriors."

He paused, then leaned forward slightly, the firelight throwing long shadows beneath his cheekbones.

"Why would his father want him back?"

Valen stared at the man. He opened his mouth again, then closed it. The answer was immediate in his own mind—but somehow, it sounded absurd now that it was in the air between them. "Because... he’s his

son

,blood of his blood?" Valen finally said, slower this time, the words heavy with an uncertain echo.

Varaku let out a short, sharp breath—

not

a laugh, but something close. Dry. Tired.

"If he returned home alive," he said, "his own kin would cut him down. Not just his father—the

brothers

of the men he led to death would do it before sunrise."

He looked directly at Valen now, his tone darkening.

"He failed in battle. He returned with nothing but screams and broken bones. What good is such a man to anyone?"

He sat back again. "Better to let my warriors

use

him for fun. At least that way, his life will pay for some part of theirs.Your custom are really strange outsider..."

There was no heat in his words. No cruelty. Just plain logic. As if he were talking about a broken spear being melted down for nails.

Valen stared, his throat dry.

He had known these people were different. That their ways—brutal, bloody, old—ran deep. But this... this wasn’t just the shape of their weapons or the tactics they used. It wasn’t steel. It wasn’t formations or horsemen.

It was the way they

saw

life.

The boy outside was not a son, not a symbol of royal blood, not a future to preserve or ransom.

He was

a failure

. A debt. Something to

spend.

Valen looked back at Varaku then, truly seeing him for the first time—not just as a leader, a partner, a warrior. But as someone carved from a stone so old and alien, he wondered if they could ever truly understand each other at all.

And yet... they were allies now.

He swallowed hard saying the only thing he could

’’I see’’