Numisley idly ate berries in a bowl, staring drowsily at the rising sun among the mountains, shining upon the ocean of fog riding along the wind. He can see the nearby Satyr villages along the slopes of the adjacent mountains under the protection of the castle that they were in. In any other time, a peaceful time, he, Cultrost, and their father might have appreciated the view of the battlements. Yet all he thought about it somewhere, his father lies dead within the grounds of the manor. He thought of the future the two books will bring.

  His company had been brought to the castle himself, and they gratefully indulged in the hospitality of the Veohantaye Tribe. They healed not only with healing potions but with balms and healing magic. Yet they did not heal Cultrost's broken arm because even they cannot heal it without using their "great treasure". They didn’t tell them what price they needed to pay, but they were allowed to see the [Shaman] who supposedly can heal the arm.

  "Hey."

  Cultrost was wandering the battlements. He was always an early riser, waking up before the sun rose. Any guest can roam the battlements since the totems stood on them and seemed to watch them. No shortage of Satyrs guarded the walls. Numisley was surprised that many wore metal armor, armor made of some kind of leather or hide. The distinct dim glow and the humming of the air on the armor is a sign that they are enchanted.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Can’t feel anything.”

  Cultrost waved his broken arm lightly, teasing Numisley. But Numisley saw that it was grotesquely swollen.

  “Stop that!” Numisley scolded. “The swelling will get worse!”

  “Kidding, kidding. Besides, we’re…here.”

  They stared at the castle itself from its battlements. Unlike any fortress, it was lined and crisscrossed with a thick chalk-like material that inlaid itself on the carved stone of the delicate pyramidal keep and formed arches around it. They realized that the structure over the keep was the giant ribs of an ancient creature. Veiny red lines along the bony structure seem to pulsate as if the castle is alive. They can feel the humming of the air emanating from the four tower-sized totems on the four corners of the compound.

  “I’ll pay any price just so you can heal your arm,” Numisley uttered.

  “The old Satyr woman back at Fishal told me that the [Commander] was healed in exchange for the fortune of his five best men.” Cultrost informed him.

  “So, it must be something more abstract.” Numisley tsked, scratching his chin. “Not gold.”

  Later that day, they were invited by the [Great Chieftain] within the castle for breakfast. They were in the vaulted dining hall, made of stone and lined with bone and wood. They even have stained glass windows that let sunlight in, illuminating the inside. They ate at a long table made out of beech and birch wood. It seems like both kinds of wood had grown into each other, forming a pattern of two trees made of both species of wood: a traditional Satyr design. Admittedly, Graten and the other Humans of the group were taken aback by the sophistication that this Satyr Tribe possesses. They saw the Satyr Tribes, not individual Satyrs, as marauding tribes who sacked settlements or nomadic [Traders].

  The [Great Chieftain of the Mountain] was muscular and tall, around seven feet tall. He possessed a well-balanced body that was not too girthy nor slender. Graten assumed that he wielded the runic glaive of bone with three brass rings that leaned on his cushioned throne of ivory as graceful as a [Glaivemaster] would. The blueberry-skinned Satyr wore a half-mask of gold and a sky-blue metal engraved with patterns resembling clouds and mountains.

  His trusted guard, his [First Warriors] stood around the hall. The best Fauntyrs of their tribe wore chainmail, metal cuirasses, furs, and leather painted with Shamanic markings, effectively enchanting them. The Severed Swords and Raudaeiz’s gang were outnumbered and possibily will be overpowered. Numisley assumed the [Warriors] can slaughter them effortlessly if the negotiation failed horribly.

  The [Chieftain] regarded Numisley, who sat at the other end of the long table, as the “leader” of the guests. They had already devoured the roasted goat and wild rice with sour berries.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Chieftain.” Numisley lowered his head in deference.

  “Chieftain Vakhsyol. 'Mountain Benevolent' in our language, but I guess you didn’t need to know that. I am the leader of the Veohantayes, protector of the Satyr villages of the Gaunt Peaks.”

  “Numisley Gildin. [Trader] of Gildin Trading. This is my brother, Cultrost Gildin.”

  His tone was conversational, and Numisley was glad he did not have to be formal. Cultrost was paying attention to the conversation.

  “So, how are your men and women, Numisley Gildin? Did our [Healers] do the job well?”

  “As you can see, they're well enough that they breathing in their food.”

  The [Chieftain] heartily laughed at Numisley’s joke. It was a gamble for Numisley if he appreciates the joke. Cultrost was wide-eyed at the interplay.

  “I like that, Numisley. But, tell me, why did you come to our tribe? Why are [Bounty Hunters] hunting you down?”

  “I humbly seek the Veohantaye Tribe just to heal my brother’s arm. I’m told by a [Commander] whom I made a deal with in the past that your tribe is capable of healing a deformed arm. The [Healers] and [Priests] of the cities are inaccessible to me. Tucken framed us and sent [Bounty Hunters] to arrest me.”

  “I see. [Healers] that can heal broken bones are highly expensive. [Priests] are occupied healing the poor and needy. So I understand your desperation. But why did you not cut off his arm?”

  “I-”

  “Because I want to fight as best as I can. I want to protect my brother with all of my body. I will be crippled if my right arm is gone, even if I can gain a Role from it. I cannot lift my brother away from danger if I got only one hand, am I right, brother?”

  Cultrost suddenly interrupted, and Numisley smiled politely. He hoped that the [Chieftain] wouldn’t take offense.

  “You got a great sibling there, Numisley.” Chieftain Vakhsyol turned his head to Cultrost, looking at him like a gem to admire from afar. “If he was born and raised in Veohantaye, my [Shaman] would mark him as a brave, honorable, and compassionate [Warrior] as a boy. I will induct him among the best of my [Warriors] with enough battles on his belt when he comes of age. Unfortunately, he was raised among the Human settlements. A sapling among the sand.”

  Numisley smirked and elbowed Cultrost in jest, but he quickly refocused on the [Chieftain].

  “So you will heal him?”

  “Not without a tribute.”

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  The [Chieftain] was friendly to his guests but he was still a [Great Chieftain].

  “What do you have to offer me to let you use of what remains of our sole Transmutation Tree? My [Chief Shaman], I summon thee. Our guests request the power of the Great Tree.”

  A female blue-skinned Satyr appeared from one of the curtained passages behind the [Chieftain], horns adorned with string wrapped with gems and teeth. Humbly dressed in woven cotton and hide, woven with symbols of power, her unmistakable aura of magic had made the guests sitting at the table hesitate.

  “I see brothers embroiled in a great destiny, and I say, [Chieftain], let them pay the price.”

  The [Chieftain] looked back at them significantly.

  “What I meant by tribute is two things, a benefit for the tribe, and the fuel required for making the Birthing Tree work. What can I gain from healing your brother, from depleting a great resource of the Satyrs? The [Commander] who last came here offered the luck of his luckiest men for the tree, and an alliance that is sworn under blood.”

  Numisley’s mind wrung itself of its thoughts, finding every way that he can think of to make this deal work. His company watched in trepidation as the air fell silent.

  “Tell me of your trade relations with the neighboring settlements.”

  Numisley’s sweat trickled from his forehead, but he kept his winning smile on. He needed to get this deal more than ever.

  “We trade with Fishal. Their fish for our sour berries and goats. Their goods for our alchemical ingredients. By proxy, we trade with the Diamond Shore Conglomerate that sells goods beyond Libertalia sold in Fishal’s markets. From Yhril, El-Mira, and Lemuria. However, our tribe is under a centuries-old blockade since they cannot take this castle.”

  “Blockade? So why did not encounter any patrols? They could’ve saved us from the [Bounty Hunters].”

  “They patrol all over the borders of the Gaunt Peaks. You took the direct path to Fishal, right? They don't need to patrol that path because Fishal’s walls have eyes on the only path that leads to the outside world. That path is a kill zone for Fishal’s [Soldiers] to cast [Fireballs] on if ever we march to it because the other paths are heavily guarded.”

  “I saw your big guy eat a destructive spell, so why not break out of the blockade?”

  Numisley knew it was a pretty stupid question. Fighting a Corporation is a guaranteed loss for any military to his knowledge. But he needed to gleam more information.

  “Because they will annihilate us with Tier 6 Spells. They will send their best Wave Armies. Their Stormscourge Raiders and Tide Wardens. They are the ones they could field inland at a moment's notice. Not even their best, for their true strength, lies in their privateer ships and ports. Although we have [Shamans], when people start dying, when they cast [Terror] Spells, when they demoralize the tribe, our magic starts weakening. The villages may starve. It will not matter if our castle is virtually unassailable if our people die outside our walls. This is what the blockade is about. We are banned from buying spellbooks nor raw mana-minerals, or magic tools like wands because they do not want to conduct guerilla warfare where we can throw [Fireballs] instantaneously and hide in the mountains. We can’t even buy steel. We cannibalized our iron pots and pans from Fishal, who keeps watch of our [Traders] within the town, auditing their purchases.”

  “So basically, they are reducing your war strength for centuries to keep you pacified.”

  “Yes. Peace, even disquieting, disadvantageous peace is better than a bitter war.”

  Numisley pieced the information together in his mind, but all can he come up with is just a promise. He turned to the criminals in his group.

  “Raudaeiz.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know any [Smugglers]? Around this area?”

  “There’s one gang in Baunt that I have contact with.”

  “Can they smuggle spellbooks, steel, and wands?”

  “If you give them enough gold, yes.”

  Numisley faced the [Chieftain] of the Veohantaye Tribe with certainty.

  “In…let’s say seven…nine trials from now, I’ll establish a smuggling line to your tribe. I will be leaving for Yhril, and I intend to rebuild my company there. We’ll buy what you need from Yhril, outside of the influence of Diamond Shore. Deal?”

  “What would I take for collateral, Trader Numisley?”

  Numisley had made the mistake of not thinking about the collateral in the heat of the moment. He was afraid that the negotiation will fail, and they will need to cut Cultrost’s arm off in the end.

  “You said that you need fuel for the tree right, some kind of mystical…not magical, something abstract for the tree right?”

  Cultrost suddenly spoke up. Numisley and Vakhsyol stared at him. He had heard tales and stories of his species even if he was born among a Human settlement from the Satyr [Traders] and other tribe-Satyrs that come to Renimburg. Satyrs and their sacrifices, their rituals of rebirth.

  “Can I offer myself? Will the spirit of it work?”

  Before Numisley can object, the [Chieftain] raised his hand.

  “Shaman Shayash. Is the boy’s will true?” The [Chieftain] asked his [Shaman]. He already thought of an advantage to this negotiation.

  “Determined. The Great Tree will be nourished from his determination and spirit of brotherhood.”

  “Numisley and Cultrost Gildin.” Chieftain Vakhsyol regarded the two brothers. “You are not the same blood, but brothers nevertheless. Cultrost, you will be Numisley’s collateral. We will regrow your arm in the Birthing Tree with a curse. It will kill you if Numisley should fail his promise in the future, but my [Shaman] will release the curse upon the establishment of our trade. Are you okay with that? Will you sacrifice your life for your brother?”

  “Gladly.” Cultrost asserted.

  “You don’t need to do that!” Numisley scolded.

  “You don’t need to bear the burden alone. I believe in you. I believe that you can do anything, even this smuggling route. I will bear this curse. I’m not as smart as you, so this is the least that I can do.”

  Numisley exhaled, exasperated by his brother’s bravery, but there was no solution other than that.

  “Fine, I accept.”

  The [Chieftain] slumped on his throne, satisfied by the answer.

  “Great. My [Shaman] will prepare the ritual within the day.”

  Later, they stayed within the guest building of the castle, where few [Merchants] had stayed in the past. It was a two-story building made out of carved stone, with a flat roof. The wide windows and bug-repellant talismans provided comfortable ventilation throughout the building, and a single sigil at a wall provided warmth when it is cold.

  “Thank you, Cultrost.”

  “No sweat.”

  The two sat in one room, drinking tea made from one of the kinds of herbs found in the mountains. They watched the first snowflakes fall as winter truly began. Despite the cold, the sigil made the room comfortably warm. A moment of peace before what is going to happen.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I guess. Having a curse on your body is pretty scary come to think of it. But I can’t go back on my word.”

  “Of course.”

  They arrived at the circular courtyard. Palden alone had accompanied Numisley and Cultrost while the others rested in the guest house. Ivory arches among stone roofs surrounded the wide red grass of the courtyard. Satyrs, men, and women dressed in red, ochre, and brown shawls, surrounded the tree in a trance. The tree is twice as large as a cedar tree, made of rubbery, placenta-like flesh with branches of rigid intestinal tubes with transparent egg-like membranes on the tips. Instead of a trunk, it had a bulging capsule-shaped sac within the bark filled with red-tinged embryonic fluid.

  Shaman Shayash and Chieftain Vakhsyol entered the gathering, receiving the attention of those who attended the ritual. Apprentice [Shamans] and [Shamanic Warriors] had gathered to contribute to the great magic.

  “We gather together on this auspicious day for the rebirth of a guest. A Satyr far from home, Cultrost Gildin. His arm was broken in a battle against a great foe to the rescue of his brother. He shall now receive the blessing of the Birthing Tree under the promise of trade. His bravery and our gifts of courage shall nourish its body. Let us begin the rite.”

  Cultrost was firmly led towards the tree by the [Chief Shaman] of Veohantaye, her hand holding firm on his. Numisley was in disbelief as she told Cultrost battle as if she were there. She produced white powder and rubbed it all over his body after stripping Cultrost naked for the rite, then gently shoved him into the central membrane of the tree. He sunk into the transparent crimson slime of the tree, much to Cultrost’s surprise.

  They chanted, throwing white powder in the air. It floated in the air, which traced lines in the air. Some of its branches dried up into wilting chalk-white husks as its egg-like membranes were drained, as Cultrost was within the sac. The combined magic of those who gathered, not just the physical mana of the atmosphere, but the courage imparted by each of them had made the tree pulsate. Like a beating heart, it supplied something for Cultrost within the tree’s membrane, which started to bubble.

  “[Ritual of the Birthing Tree].”

  The [Chief Shaman] spoke in the middle of the chanting. Soon, they were done supplying the tree with what it needed to activate it. Already, his arm started to be fixing himself within the membrane. There was a dim crimson glow on the tree as if full of life.

  “He will be healed in three days, with his bravery and the bit of courage that we imparted.”

  Numisley was speechless. This was more magical than any [Mage] can do. Palden was familiar with Shamanic magic from traveling around the region with roaming Satyr tribes but he had only heard myths of Birthing Trees.

  The Satyrs of the Veohantaye Tribe left, then the [Shaman] and the [Chieftain] followed. Numisley stayed with Cultrost throughout the day, even when the skies went dark. It was unbearably cold, despite the castle's magical field protecting the place from snowfall.

  Palden set up a little tent over Numisley, along with a tiny lantern that the [Shaman] enchanted for him to provide warmth. He bought him a bowl of warm soup and bread, which Numisley graciously accepted.

  "Still watching him?"

  "Yeah."

  Cultrost was unconscious but not drowning in the fluid. He was resting, fast asleep. For three days, Numisley watched his brother regenerate his arm, sleeping in front of him. He seemed to grow a bit taller, day by day, his body refining itself within the tree. Every part of his body, every aspect growing and enhancing.

  On the third day, the tree lost its glow. The membrane that Cultrost is floating within started to rumble. Then, it popped.

  The tree flooded the courtyard with the crimson embryonic fluid, which swept Numisley and his tent. However, the raised edges are designed to mitigate flooding. The fluid nourished the red grass, which instantly flowered and bore pink beans on their seedheads. Satyrs holding baskets, some attached to their horns scattered to pick up the beans.

  Numisley’s brother stood up. He looked upon a taller, better Cultrost. A Stationmistress raged when his agent reported that the [Bounty Hunters] were all killed by a Satyr Tribe.