As if Elys’ words had struck them some sort of spiritual blow, the bodies of the five representatives collapsed to the ground, limp as dolls. After a moment, Cyril realized Elys wasn’t the one who had afflicted them. His mother must have targeted them somehow. After the flash of blinding light, she still hadn’t emerged from her secluded meditation.

That left the tribe in a bit of an awkward situation. Elys stared at their bodies as if completely mystified, but she soon managed to compose her demeanor. The look she offered Uncle Asher spoke of an unfounded confidence in her ability to handle the coming future. It was almost convincing.

“That can’t be a good sign,” she said.

“No,” Asher agreed. He sobered up immediately while assessing the situation, no longer playing the role of the drunken buffoon. There was a reason he was the leader of the vanguard war party. “Let me reach out to the scouts. This would be an opportune time for an assault from some ruthless bastards.”

“Let them try,” said Elys.

That earned a bit of a muted cheer from the house guards, though Cyril found he couldn’t quite join in.

Asher’s eyes turned completely white as he retreated into his mind, no doubt in telepathic communication with other members of the tribe’s military force.

It seemed foolish for someone to directly assault his tribe. Battles between Nascent Soul Cultivators or higher could lead to mutual destruction in large-scale warfare. Such calamities had already scarred most of the material world, though existence proved itself rather resilient over the ages.

A direct assault on a force of high-level cultivators tipped the scales heavily in favor of the defender. The adversary would have to feel they had an overwhelming advantage to launch themselves willingly into protective wards and treasures. As with Cyril’s mother, many of the older forces within the world had some patron elder in reserve, locked in meditation for hundreds of years unless a crisis disturbed their reverie. The elders from the Sect of Sacred Tears had learned that lesson.

Or did they already know it? he thought.

So far, his paranoia hadn't led him astray. There could be other reasons, but for his mother to personally intervene against the representatives meant something was wrong. Intrusion on the sovereignty of another cultivator’s will was not taken lightly among the monsters of the world. No one kept their territory unless they were willing to demonstrate how much they deserved it.

“What do we do with them?” said Tyrin, his voice low.

“Capture them.” Elys sighed. “We’re going to run out of cages.”

Tyrin swallowed and glanced down at the limp bodies of the representatives. “We should kill them. Maybe if we do that, it’ll free mother from having to deal with them. What if they win?”

Cyril already knew he and Loras would get along.

“Destroying their physical bodies won’t make a difference,” said Elys. “The battle is between minds and souls.”

“Do you even know if that’s true?” said Tyrin, failing to conceal a sneer.

“I said it, so you listen.”

Cyril grimaced in secondhand embarrassment for his elder brother. Questioning the Matriarch in public was a challenge that couldn’t be ignored.

Elys shook her head, then stared at her brother. Her tone turned a bit softer. “Mother will win, so there’s no need to butcher their bodies. Captives can also be more useful than corpses.”

The explanation seemed to mollify Tyrin. He bowed his head and retreated a bit.

Soon after, life returned to Uncle Asher’s eyes. “Bad news. We’ve lost touch with several of our scouts. They sent out some energy signatures into those areas and confirmed that our long-distance detection is being obfuscated. Specialty of Water cultivators. Better at hiding themselves than fighting. Don’t they know what happens when they face fire? Our hearts won’t be easily quenched.”

Despite his bold declarations at the end, everyone present understood the implications of the speech. Frenetic music continued in the distance, though the atmosphere of the feast had calmed under the eclipse of their mother’s light.

Elys turned and pointed directly at Cyril. “I got the feeling that your new friend is pretty talented at war. Would you kindly extend our invitation to him?”

For a moment, he felt awkward after having his disguise exposed. With his mask and guard uniform, no one who didn’t already know him should be able to figure out his identity. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

They carried the unconscious representatives back to the central compound, earning a host of curious stares at their passage. The indignity of them hoisting the captives about by hand was meant to leave an imprint on those watching. It was a display of brutal superiority, meant to steady their hearts for what was likely to come.

On the way, they discussed various tactical plans on how to challenge the situation. Uncle Asher had the most to say by far, being in charge of imagining clever ways to defeat and deceive others.

Cyril felt more like a bystander, unfamiliar with the current forces and tactics available to the tribe. He spent his time ingesting various elixirs meant to temporarily enhance everything from his reaction speed to his qi regeneration rate. Mixing so many would lead to some impurities and an atrocious migraine, but the first moment of contact was bound to set the stage for the rest of the coming battle.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Inevitably, the conversation turned toward his role in the coming confrontation.

After they explained that they wanted him to remain back and protect the tribe, he agreed without complaint. His family stared at him as if shocked that he hadn’t seen the need to defy them.

“Not sure how much use I’d have on the frontlines,” said Cyril. “Better for me to serve as a shield for our people. They’ll try to infiltrate deeper into the tribe to sow chaos within anyways. I think it’s best to leave some very capable people behind to deal with that.”

Asher nodded. “Probably a good idea. Tyrin, stay here with him. Get to learn this one a bit better.” He pointed a thumb at Cyril.

Cyril may have preferred single combat over trying to rekindle some sort of bond with his taciturn older brother. Still, Tyrin was a more-than-capable fighter. He wouldn’t refuse to have him by his side.

They arrived at the central compound, where a subdued feast continued on. Heads turned and musicians stopped playing as they headed toward the least-utilized building within the central compound: the black glass prison.

Cyril waited outside while the others deposited the captives. Tyrin waited along with him, arms crossed, remaining silent. A few minutes passed as they both contemplated nothing, pretending not to be wholly focused on the other. Neither were willing to bridge that gap they knew they had imagined between themselves.

Some of the guards shot them glances, though it seemed Tyrin received the majority of them. Despite his argument with Elys, the respect in their faces was clear as day.

Cyril removed his armor from his storage ring and applied the pieces one at a time. The various elixirs and pills he had forced down had filled his channels close to bursting with excess qi. As he equipped himself, he began the process of transforming the bronze into darksteel, starting with the breastplate.

Tyrin observed with a sidelong glance.

Then, Tyrin removed a tin of cigarillos from within his robes and offered one over to Cyril.

Cyril waved him off. “No thanks.”

“Can’t smoke in that ugly mask, can you?” said Tyrin.

The weak attempt at a joke was something he had in common with his older brother. He understood the gesture and appreciated it well enough.

Cyril swallowed and changed the subject. “Seems like you’ve grown stronger.”

Tyrin nodded and slipped one of the cigarillos into his mouth. Wisps of spirituality wafted from the tip, though it hadn’t yet been lit. “Bonded with a high-rank ifrit. Of course, being around Elys has made it exceptional within its class. Still, two of you have Titans, and here I am without a marid.” He tapped his dantium lightly. “No offense.”

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, though it was slightly less awkward than before. The music had started up again, this time an obvious call to war--aggressive drums and bells.

During their wait, Cyril managed to convert most of his plate armor into darksteel with his excess qi. He dipped into the reservoir of his core, but it regenerated nearly as quickly as he could spend it. Before he could finish transmuting his greaves, Asher and Elys burst out of the black compound.

The bells began to ring more frantically, changing to an alarm that had been drilled into every tribesperson’s head since their youth: invasion. The enemy frontlines must have pushed far enough into their territory to warrant a direct confrontation.

While they had already discussed their roles, Cyril couldn’t help but stare after Elys and Asher as they departed, a retinue of houseguards struggling to keep pace. Other figures shot through the air like comets, or stood atop their flying spears and swords. Dozens of elders and inner disciples rushed out in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. A concerning sight--it meant that they were surrounded from all sides, and the stronger members of the tribe needed to separate to cover large swathes of ground.

Cyril focused his spiritual senses on Elys after detecting a subtle shimmering from her body. He managed to trace the aura of her qi; it extended out from her back in dozens of blue-green fractal wings--a vast network of Knowledge qi. Its many branches formed an ethereal link between all the upper echelon of the tribe. A Knowledge technique, he guessed. Likely the reason they moved in complete coordination despite no obvious communication passing between them.

Some of the guards lingered within the central courtyard, along with various lithe figures that darted back and forth throughout the courtyards. Messengers for those not connected to Elys’ Knowledge network, spreading information throughout the tribe while simultaneously patrolling the interior of the tribe.

Strangely, none of them approached him or Tyrin. Cyril glanced over at his older brother and noticed a strand of the network connected to his temple.

“So I’m not included?” said Cyril, only half-joking.

Tyrin tilted his chin. “You have one too. There’s just no need to flood your mind with irrelevant details right now. You aren’t familiar with the process either. Takes time to adjust to the whole thing.”

Cyril shrugged and examined his spear for the tenth time. “Just wish I knew what was coming.”

Tyrin glanced over at him sidelong. “About what you’d expect. I’m sure you’ve learned a bit about Leviathan’s empire so far. A lot of polite company doesn’t like discussing the finer details, but you’ll soon see how they wage war. Those who were unable to tolerate his cruel methods were twisted and corrupted into abominations by his power. On top of that, they aren’t afraid to utilize traditional monster swarms.”

Cyril shook his head. “Throwing a monster swarm at us is just feeding us death energy.”

Tyrin shrugged. “For outliers like yourself, maybe. In these sort of clashes, it’s more of a distraction than anything, though some of those abominations are nasty. Those who would benefit from fending off a monster swarm generally aren’t the people who turn the tides of a battle.”

“Generally,” Cyril agreed. "You know, I've never heard you talk this much in your life."

Tyrin looked away awkwardly. "I've always talked when necessary."

After that, they lapsed into silence, waiting. For a while, Cyril remembered their past relationship. Distant, somewhat cold, but not altogether unpleasant. Tyrin had mostly kept to himself and never bothered anyone. When he was younger, Cyril had resented him somewhat for his attitude, but he was beginning to understand that some people simply felt more comfortable in silence. The stretches of quiet between them weren't truly awkward--there was no inherent need to fill those gaps with noise.

So they kept waiting together for several minutes, neither speaking, as they reflected on the past and future.

Without any obvious reason, Tyrin uncrossed his arms and touched the center of his chest. A white flame the size of a heart materialized upon his sternum. He reached into it, most of his hand sinking in, and pulled out his weapon: an orange-bladed longsword, with a matching ribbon dangling from its white hilt.

“Have you sensed it yet, Cyril?” said a familiar, resonant voice.

Cyril glanced over to find Loras had appeared beside him. The metallic cultivator had reverted to the ebony armor from their initial encounter.

Instead of responding, Cyril closed his eyes and spread his spiritual senses. At the very periphery, he detected faint tremors underground. The oscillations sped up, grew closer, and soon enough he recognized what he was looking at.

Cyril shook his head. “I hate wyrms.”