A lone human awaited Daxo in the carriage ruts of Old Market Road. This human was called Malak Sier, and he was a rare breed. His belief in logic was so absolute, that it overcame the existential fear that ruled over his race. He was also, even more incredibly, devoid of the racial prejudice. So far. Daxo himself was also a rare breed. He was a Kona man capable of comprehending human cunning. He was no match for Malak though, and he knew it.

“Laoha Auinala.” called Malak. Malak was one of the only three humans Daxo had ever known to try his tongue. His words meant ‘Good Afternoon’, and he pronounced them well.

“Laoha Ahiahi.” he returned. Good evening, he had said. “We are guests in your city. We will speak your language.” Daxo told him.

“Thank you, my friend. Will you walk with me?”

“Apologies sincerest, for I have not bathed. I have been on a hunt all day.”

“No cause for apology. We are grateful. You may wash, if you like, at Ms. Tara Donner’s spigot.” Malak made it clear with a gesture that he did not mind either way, and the two set off to organize the feast.

“I hope,” began Malak, “that you have been treated with civility? Please do tell me if you have not. I am no great believer in the human race.”

“Yes, although Ope Loa keeps to itself. We had an encounter this morning, though.” Daxo knew that bits of information such as the one he was about to share were a currency in a place like Goldcrest. He trusted Malak, though, and had far less to offer than he would surely find himself asking for. “An alpha called Gauis pan Tracchus requested that I join his hunt.”

“What did you tell him?” Malak’s expression was kind, but it gave no clue as to what he hoped for. Daxo was unable to hide his own scorn for Gaius’ character.

“Gaius hunts men, does he not?”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“So he does.”

Daxo considered whether or not he should state the obvious. It was expected in discourse between Kona warriors that everything be stated as clearly as possible. Humans, especially intelligent ones, had a confounding habit of providing a bare minimum amount of information. To them conversation was a game, and he who communicated his idea using the smallest volume of relevant information and the greatest number of abstract references was the victor. It was clear to Malak that Daxo had told Gaius to go on alone. Wasn’t it? He decided to state the obvious anyway.

“I told him he would have to continue his hunt alone.” Daxo felt foolish, like a child at play in a man’s world.

“It is a good sign though.” Malak reassured him. Daxo felt foolish once more, because he did not know what Malak would say next. “...that Gaius respects you.”

“Gaius does not know me. He respects only my image.”

“Even so. May I make a suggestion.”

“I would hear it happily.”

“Seek out Gaius pan Tracchus. He and his ‘Elites’ could provide your people a well deserved degree of safety.”

To seek out and befriend a dishonorable warrior was just the type of advice Daxo had come to expect in the world of man. Equally typical in its contradictory nature was the politician who gave advice that seemed to work entirely against his own interests. How could an alliance between Daxo’s pride and a posse of extremist warriors called ‘The Elites’ do Malak and his politicians any good? Daxo was sure he would never work out the answer to this riddle. Perhaps the advice was not advice at all. Perhaps Malak was giving him permission to act in a selfish manner.

“Thank you.”

“No need.” Malak responded happily. “Words are free. Tell me about your dining customs….”

Malak’s questions went on and on. For some reason, he cared very much about quaint cultural facts. Where did Kona people take their meals? Was there a logic to the order in which they sat down to eat? What was the historical significance of ‘The Benediction of Supper?’. Was the benediction subject to dialectic interpretation? Daxo found himself enjoying the conversation thoroughly. He discarded his formal training and chattered happily about the culture which defined his soul. By the time they reached the Donner command tent, all racial differences had been embraced or forgotten, and the two leaders chuckled like old friends.