Corvus retreated to the darkest corner of his tent. He pulled his knees to his chest, deep in thought. The chaos in his mind gnawed at his soul like a thin wind seeping into the tent. If anyone who entered the tent saw him like this, they might think he was trying to hide. But Corvus was just hoping to find peace for a moment and to find a way out of this chaos. He didn't know how much time had passed; he only wondered what he could do to speed up the change. Rhazgord must never again fall into the same desperation as the bandits. But figuring out how to do that was harder than he thought.

Suddenly, he was jolted out of his seat by a loud noise outside. For a brief moment he could not comprehend what had happened, but this was not an unusual movement. He could hear swords being drawn from their scabbards, heavy boots pounding hard on the ground. The sounds were getting closer and closer, like a growing storm heading towards his tent. He had a sense of what was happening outside, but before he could be sure, he hurried towards the entrance of the tent. At that moment a shout from outside brought his steps to an abrupt halt.

“Come out, Corvus Tiamat!” a woman's voice shouted. The anger in the voice seemed to cut through the air.

As Corvus rushed out of the tent, the scene unfolded before his eyes. Kragan was barely able to stop a crazed female warrior. She was wielding a huge black axe, her rage felt in every muscle. As soon as she saw Corvus, her anger flared. Her teeth clenched, her eyes narrowed in anger. She did not care that Kragan was trying to stop her; she insisted on trying to break free from his strong arms. But Kragan held her down. If this had been anyone else, Kragan would have knocked her down long ago.

“Know your place, Franz!” roared Kragan in a rage that tried his patience. But Kragan never wanted to raise a hand against this warrior. Because Franz was someone both Corvus and Kragan knew well. Franz was the first female warrior to come under Corvus' command and had been fighting alongside him since he became Sharazir. Her skill, talent and courage on the battlefield had always caught Corvus' attention. But now, it was not the calm and strategic woman he had seen on the battlefield. This woman was a storm of uncontrolled rage.

The axe in Franz's hand sliced the air with reflections from its black iron. His muscles tensed, his eyes flashing with anger and pain. Every muscle tensed violently as he struggled against Kragan's hands holding her. Franz was a woman, but on the battlefield this would have gone unnoticed. Her short, sharply cut hair and large build flowed like a shadow through the battle. Yet her thin voice betrayed the woman behind the tough exterior.

Corvus had not expected to meet Franz in this state. He tried to guess the source of the anger, but it was hard to understand such a destructive reaction. Franz was a warrior, but she was also a friend. Now she stood before him like an enemy.

Franz's eyes were aflame with hatred. Corvus could not immediately grasp the reason behind her anger, but it was clear that Franz was maddeningly angry. Corvus's mind was still stuck on the night's impressions of the bandit's miserable state; echoes of his pity for him still lingered in his mind. But now he had to face the torrent of anger that had erupted the moment Franz had learned of his brother's death. Franz was the sister of the fighter who had been badly wounded in the previous day's battle, and unfortunately her brother had not survived the night. With the first rays of the sun, his brother's life was lost forever.

But even this fact did not fully explain Franz's devastating rage. Conflict was part of war, and despite every precaution, the inevitable had happened. It was not Corvus' fault, but for Franz the truth was not so simple. Before Corvus could understand why this fearless woman in front of him was so enraged, Franz shouted out her thoughts.

“While I mourn my brother, you are giving his murderer water instead of beheading him!” roared Franz, the pain and betrayal blazing in her eyes like a dagger stabbing Corvus.

Corvus knew that on the battlefield death was always one step away. He had expected Franz's brother to die, but there was a hope, a possibility, that he would survive. The news weighed heavily on his heart. He was perhaps more saddened by the death of Franz's brother than he realized. But what fueled Franz's anger was the wounded bandit he had given water to that morning. Corvus himself didn't know exactly why he gave him water. Maybe it was a moment of pity, maybe it was because he wanted the bandit to talk. But whatever the reason, he had no answer at the moment.

Franz took a few steps back. His eyes were full, tears falling slowly to the ground. They were like echoes of a painful silence that squeezed Corvus' heart. The woman's eyes fixed on Corvus and anger burned inside her like an unquenchable fire. Then she spoke in a calm, yet painful voice.

“That bastard owes me blood! Either you make him bleed or I will make you bleed, Corvus Tiamat!"

These words echoed like lightning striking the earth. Franz's pain and anger held a threat deeper and sharper than anything heard in the Rhazgord camp. But this threat was not directed only at Corvus. Franz's challenge also limited the loyalty and devotion of all the warriors around her. For a warrior like Kragan, who was fiercely loyal to Corvus, this was the last straw.

Kragan's loud voice echoed as sharp as a knife. “I told you to know your place, Franz!” he shouted as he drew his huge silver inlaid axe from his back. Kragan's entire body responded to this fury, radiating a dominating force around him as he trampled the earth with every step. In an instant, not only Kragan, but many other warriors took up arms against Franz's threat. Axes, swords and spears came out, each one filled with a torrent of rage in reaction to Franz's words.

But something unexpected happened. Part of the crowd moved behind Franz and drew their weapons. The warriors in front of the tent were split in two. Both sides looked at each other menacingly with their weapons.

In the center of the camp, there was dead silence. All it would take was a spark between the two groups of warriors, and it could turn into a bloodbath. Every breath made the atmosphere heavier, testing the patience of both sides.

Baldrek's thunderous voice cut through the crowd and opened a gap. It echoed through the camp, cutting through the tension. Baldrek and Zarqa stepped through the gap and stood in the middle of the two groups, between the warriors on the brink of conflict. Zarqa's mere presence put an overwhelming pressure on the crowd. In Corvus' camp, he was the only one as influential and deadly as Corvus. Looking into Zarqa's face was like looking into the depths of a dark sea; cold, boundless and utterly dangerous.

The crowd that had gathered behind Franz drew back as Zarqa approached. Until that moment the crowd had forgotten how deadly this man could be, but now the reality was enough to make their whole bodies tremble. Driven by Franz's anger, this group was becoming discouraged. Zarqa took a step forward, looked the crowd in the eye and began to speak, as if he could silence them all with a single word. The words were as sharp and threatening as a knife.

"Is this a rebellion?" he asked. Zarqa's voice was so calm that each word echoed in the silence, adding to the tension. There was a death threat in the depths of his voice, felt but not clearly seen. Zarqa ran his eyes over the crowd. He took in the faces of each warrior, one by one. As he looked at each one, it was as if he imagined them dying before his eyes. The crowd stood helplessly under Zarqa's gaze, almost frozen.

“But...” one warrior dared to speak in a trembling voice. But Zarqa did not even let that warrior finish. He repeated his earlier question, his voice even sharper:

“I said, is this a rebellion!?”

This second warning sent some of the warriors into a deep fear. Some removed their hands from the hilts of their weapons, their gaze shifting to the ground. Zarqa was not nicknamed “Dagger of Corvus” for nothing. He was one of Corvus' most loyal and deadliest warriors. And he was the only Sharazir in the camp other than Corvus. He didn't like to talk too much. So it was obvious that he would not give a third warning.

Yet, despite Zarqa's cold threat, many still held their weapons. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords. Everyone was looking at each other, weighing who would make the first move. Eyes were constantly scanning the surroundings, sensing the danger of a crowd that would go berserk at a misstep. Just then, something happened that sharpened the tension in the camp: Corvus passed between Zarqa and Baldrek almost unnoticed. Without attracting the attention of the crowd, he appeared right in front of Franz and everyone held their breath.

Corvus had two swords, both gifted to him by his father Sakhaar Tiamat when he became Sharazir. These swords were no ordinary weapons. Made of a dark metal, they carried the coldness of death. On the blades were sacred words engraved in the ancient alphabet of Rhazgord, words that glowed with a crimson glow. These swords were symbols not only of Corvus, but also of the deadliness of the Tiamats.

Stolen story; please report.

Corvus slowly drew his swords in front of everyone's eyes. The sound of the swords leaving the hilt echoed in the ears like a deadly whisper. For a moment the swords vibrated in the air, as if hungry for blood, as if they could not wait to return to the battlefield. With this movement, the tension in the crowd reached its peak. Even Franz had to back away, staggering into the warriors behind her. Everyone standing in front of Corvus felt the power of the swords. They were facing the strongest man in the camp, and if these swords were raised, they would surely shatter those in front of them when they landed.

Everyone thought that Corvus drawing the swords was a sign of a battle. Some even thought that he had drawn them out of bloodlust and that he would instantly strike Franz down. But Corvus made an unexpected move. In front of everyone, he threw his two black swords in front of Franz. The swords were so heavy that as soon as they touched the ground, a small cloud of dust rose into the air.

Corvus paused for a moment, caught his breath and then fixed his gaze on Franz. His words were heavy, as if made of steel.

“First collect the blood debt the bandit owes you... then come to me,” he said, his voice cold as ice. Franz tried to contain her pain and anger, but every word from Corvus ignited more rage in her. But Corvus continued without pause, this time with a deeper challenge. “Come and collect what I and my family owe to the bandit, to you and to every other Rhazgordian.” Hearing these words, the warriors were stunned. Some understood what Corvus meant immediately, others in the next few minutes.

Corvus' face suddenly took on a more threatening expression. His eyes narrowed, his lips set in a hard line. What Corvus was about to say seemed to bring a dark cloud over the camp.

“But!” his voice rose suddenly, like a thunderbolt tearing through the sky. “But if you don't have the guts to stand up to me and my family and demand the debt owed not only by your brother but by all Rhazgordians, stay where you are!”

This sentence hit the crowd like a bomb. Franz's eyes filled with anger and despair, while a wave of uncertainty spread through the warriors behind her. Corvus slowly pulled his gaze away from Franz's face and turned to the crowd. His eyes, unlike his voice, were not threatening. On the contrary, they were full of sadness. His eyes traveled over each warrior in turn. No one could escape his gaze. Everyone felt the effort, sadness and determination in those eyes.

“While you fought for us, we gave you the spoils! You can eat a morsel more than other Rhazgordians because you died for us!” Corvus' voice was even louder now, each word echoing through the air, hitting the warriors' minds like a hammer. As everyone listened in silence, Corvus' words reached everyone's ears, one by one. Then he continued with a hard but sharp question: “What about when you needed to buy medicine for your child, could you find it? And when you did, did you have the money to buy it!”

Many of the fighters in the crowd had experienced what he was saying, or knew very well those who had experienced these harsh realities. As their heads fell back, a shadow appeared on their faces. Corvus was opening an even deeper wound. “Or when the crooked, muddy streets ruined your shoes, were you able to buy new ones? Did you enjoy watching those who lost an arm, a leg or even a life in a duel over a stupid disagreement!"

Corvus' voice hit each warrior in the face, almost like a tangible substance. The words were so heavy that it seemed as if even breathing was difficult when they heard them. Everyone had to accept what Corvus said, the bitter truth of those words. The air inside the camp became too tense to breathe.

Corvus wanted to further reveal the truths that were beginning to murmur quietly in the crowd. “Shall I go on telling you about these absurd things that are almost never seen even in the smallest kingdoms! Are they so superior to us that their roads are elaborate, that their markets sell every herb and medicine? Why do they settle their disputes with words and not with blood?”

These questions pierced the crowd like daggers, one by one. Everyone knew these facts, but it was always difficult to face them. The people of Rhazgord had gotten used to living in this misery, almost accepting their fate. But now Corvus had punched them in the chest and told them that they could not run away from the truth. The faces of everyone in the crowd darkened even more, anger, sadness and despair mingled together.

Corvus' voice rose again, growing harsher and more determined every moment. “You fought under the banner of my father, grandfather and ancestors! You bowed your head in respect every time you saw them! You brought your tribute to Sanguinar without missing a day!”

With the weight of his words he cut through the crowd and pointed to the bandit tied to the pole, almost unconscious. “This is what you get! Starvation, rebellion and death!” His eyes traveled through the crowd, searching each face individually. The silence was filled with tension, as if it could not hold any longer. Everyone was waiting for Corvus' next step. Then he turned quickly in front of Franz. His steps echoed with determination, as if he was walking towards Franz.

“Look, Franz!” he roared, his voice cracking with rage. “I've listed for you the debts you have to collect one by one! Go on, start! Get me out of this mess if you can! Because if you won't, I will! I will build the Rhazgord you deserve! I will collect your debt!”

Corvus' eyes were boiling like a volcano. The crowd was crushed under his power. His words were a call, not just to Franz, but to all Rhazgordians. A call for help. Then he turned and continued, looking at every corner of the camp. He looked into the eyes of each warrior, one by one.

“Now! I say to each and every one of you! If you can afford it, come and collect your debt! But if not, stand behind me! Give me your strength! And I will pay you what I owe you, what Rhazgord owes you!"

A deep silence reigned in the camp. Every warrior felt the weight of Corvus' words on his shoulders. Years of the Rhazgord order were being questioned. Everyone could feel the desire burning inside them: To follow Corvus and recreate Rhazgord. But was it really possible to change an order that had not changed for thousands of years? Could a sixteen-year-old boy break this ancient order? In their minds, they worried that Sanguinar and the Tiamats would rise up against them, that the other great families would resist change.

As the crowd struggled with these thoughts, Franz walked slowly towards Corvus, her head bowed, unable to look him in the face. How had she gone so far as to threaten him? How could she have been so reckless? As one of those who knew Corvus' struggle best, she had failed to see the weight on his shoulders. She had seen the bandit only as a murderer, a criminal. But when Corvus looked at the bandit, he saw the order of the Rhazgord.

He slowly picked up the two black swords lying on the ground. In Franz's hands they were a symbol of a heavy and lofty responsibility. She fell to her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto the ground.

“Forgive me... forgive me, Corvus...” she said, her voice hoarse and shaky. Tears mingled with her words, the regret in her eyes. "I didn't see what you saw... I didn't realize the weight on your back..." She held out the swords in her hands towards Corvus, but her head was still bowed, as if she did not dare even look at him. “If you forgive me, I will walk in your path from today until my last day!”

Franz's words hung in the air, and before Corvus could answer, there was movement. Zarqa, Kragan and Baldrek knelt without hesitation. The same words fell from their lips: “I will walk in your path from today until my last day!” Their words echoed through the camp. A wave rose in everyone's heart. All the dark clouds that cast a shadow over their hearts dissipated. In just a few seconds, every single warrior in the camp had sworn to follow Corvus until the day they died.

Corvus slowly took Franz's outstretched swords. As the hilts of the swords fit in his hand, the weight of this moment became even more pronounced. He glanced briefly at the warriors around him. They would all fight for the dream of a better Rhazgord under his leadership. Only then did he notice the smile on the face of the half-conscious bandit. As Corvus replaced his swords in their hilts, the bandit's spirit quietly left his body. As he crossed over with a final look of acceptance and peace in his eyes, this death would perhaps symbolize the rebirth of the Rhazgord.