Chapter One // Ain't That a Crying Shame?
Arha came to with a pounding headache - and, more urgently, a pounding against her door.
She sat up, rubbing at her eyes, and noted somewhat dispassionately that everything hurt. Fatigue hung over her like a suffocating wet blanket, and every one of her bones seemed to ache and throb. She allowed herself to sit there, for a moment, brought to hunched stillness - but only a moment, before the disciplined warrior cast her vexations aside and snapped up to her feet, her back rigid and her shoulders square and her chin held high. She was Arha, Third Eltok, the greatest prodigy of her generation, and she was not human - nay, she was Death itself, wrapped in a shroud of pale, scarred flesh so as to better walk amongst her myriad victims.
This and more she told herself to drown out her steadily-rising agony as she crossed her chamber and pulled open that damned insistent door. And thus she found herself face to face with her towering Shadow, whose disfigured face split now into a rare grin. It was a ghastly image the likes of which could induce even hardened Winnowers to avert their eyes, though Arha had known Grakke long enough to realize that this one was genuine.
"Ya look like shit warmed over," Grakke said, by way of greeting, to which Arha gave a noisy snort.
"I just woke up - what's your excuse?" she shot back, the corners of her mouth tilting to indicate that she took no offense to the other man's words. Amongst a people who lived and breathed violence, even the smallest of insults could quickly snowball into a matter of blood and death. She took a step back, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, and Grakke obliged, stomping into the room and kicking the door shut behind him. He was truly a man without subtlety, even in the most mundane of actions, which was something that Arha had always respected - if not exactly admired - about him. He lowered himself now into a chair of lashed-together bone as Arha began to tie her hair back into something more manageable.
"That was a good fight," he said, as the chair creaked in shrill protest.
"It was satisfactory," Arha replied blandly, tying the knot tight. "I fought with a sluggish hand. Kagen's death should have come far swifter." This, at least, was no arrogant downplaying. Even now the Third Eltok was coldly analyzing her imperfections, making clear-headed note of improvements to target during the day's sparring sessions. All of this was in strict accordance with how she had been brought up to behave as a warrior without peer.
"Well," Grakke shrugged, long accustomed to his leader and lifelong friend's relentless drive for self-perfection, "it was pretty damn impressive to us. Kagen was one of the old guard, you know. A legendary Eltok." Again, his face split into that malformed smile, and his voice rose in volume and excitement both. "Never in my life did I think I'd see that arrogant old sve'ka run through by a young upstart from the next generation - run through by one of us!"
At that, Arha's stoic facade finally cracked, and she couldn't help but break into a wild grin as her second-in-command shot to his feet. The two clasped arms - hands gripping each other's wrists, muscles bulging and skin pulling taut - then they separated, and Grakke's fist pounded against his chest in almighty salute.
And then, slowly, his grin began to fade, and Arha watched with her own smile dropping fast as a shadow passed across his face. His beady black eyes grew pensive and dull, now, as he crossed arms like tree trunks across his chest.
"It was an incredible deed," he said, slowly, his voice a low rumble. "One that I'm sure the Worm looks upon with gluttonous pride."
"But?" Arha interjected, before he could reach the word.
"But," Grakke agreed, "Wastes only know what you've just unleashed upon us."
Few but Arha understood that despite his gargantuan size and notoriously volatile temper, Grakke was in fact - in moments of calm, anyway - a careful, cautious, cool-headed man, one whom often took the long view and thus afforded Arha the luxury of taking the short. And here, now, in the wake of what was probably the greatest triumph the Third Host had ever claimed over their decades-old rivals, he was shunting his elation aside to tell Arha exactly what he felt she needed to hear. It was this that Arha did admire about him, and it was a significant part of why she had kept him closest out of all her companions for so many years now.
His point, Arha knew, was a valid one. Nevertheless she fundamentally disagreed.
"You fear reprisal?" she asked, short and clipped, immediately assuming the rigid posture of an Eltok's control once more.
"I fear war," Grakke replied, solemn and serious. "Kagen was the heart and soul of the Second Host for nearly five decades. And for him to die now, out of nowhere, at the hand of the youngest Eltok in history?"
"This was Kagen's doing, not mine," Arha said quickly, shaking her head. "It was he who provoked us time and time again, and it was the Third Host who, on my orders and your counsel, merely sat by and accepted his insults and indignities. All in the name of peace. It was Kagen who sought war, Grakke. And now his ambitions are dead alongside him, forgotten to the past."
"As they should be," Grakke said. "But you and I both know that Winnowers don't think that way - especially not those prideful bastards in the Second. For the first time in as long as I can remember, they're the ones on the back foot, and I have no doubt they'll be eager to correct that. And don't forget, too, that Kagen's whelp is now Eltok by blood. Even now, I'm sure his blade is a hungry one."
"He can seek me out, then!" Arha said, barking out a laugh. It was a sharp, pointed thing. "I'd happily send him to meet with his father."
"We don't have the numbers-" Grakke started.
"Look, Grakke," the Third Eltok interjected, and her loyal second-in-command clamped his mouth shut at once. "These are wise, measured concerns, and I am greatly pleased that you saw fit to share them with me, even in the aftermath of my triumph. It is for counsel like this that you have proven an invaluable ally time and time again." At that, the big man bowed his head. "But at the end of the day, this was a duel. Nothing more and nothing less. Kagen insulted me personally, knowing full well that as a Winnower my response would be delivered with blade in hand. All present bore witness. This killing was justified, and this killing was right, and the inevitable discontent to follow will be closely tamped down by the new Eltok and the Grand Lord both. It would benefit nobody to see a war split our city in twain."
And when she spoke, her words with imbued with such authority, with such overwhelming certainty that they were, to Grakke's ears, all but immutable fact. And thus, rather than offer retort, he merely saluted once more, opening his mouth to offer an obedient reply before he was cut off by rapid-fire rapping against the door.
"What now?" Arha snapped, her impatience flaring for the briefest of moments before she forced it down beneath the ocean of calm control once more.
"Dunno," Grakke grunted, making for the door. "That ain't our knock." And so he opened it to reveal a grim-faced man in crimson-painted bone armor, his hands clasped tight behind his back.
At the sight of that armor, Grakke's eyes narrowed at once, and the muscles in his shoulders bunched - but behind him, Arha's reaction couldn't have been further opposite.
"Ah," she said, a faint hint of a smile playing across her face. "I suppose he wants to congratulate me, then?"
"The First Eltok would see you in his sanctum at once, Bloodied One," the Winnower of the First Host intoned, addressing Arha in the New Tongue translation of her title. "I am to be your escort."
"She doesn't need an escort," Grakke snorted, though he knew full well that no outsider could enter into the barracks of the First Host without one.
"By all means," Arha replied, inclining her head. "A moment for me to get dressed, if you would."
The Winnower stepped away with neither bow nor salute, and Grakke was about to exit in similar - though more respectful - fashion when Arha reached out and grabbed his arm. He turned to see her eyes, cold and grey as steel, boring twin holes straight through his skull. Those were pale eyes that knew neither pity nor remorse; the eyes of a woman who had, even moreso than the rest of them, been raised to be nothing less than an apex predator.
"Speak with Nageth, Makran, and the others," she ordered, quietly. "Especially Makran. For the time being there is to be no fighting between our Hosts. No duels, no brawls, no scuffles, no harsh words. Nothing. But make no mistake - anything they inflict on us, we inflict back twofold. For an eye, we take a head. For a head, we take their skin. And if any Second Host gve'ka does challenge one of ours to a duel, it is to be made clear to them that at current there is only one Third Host Winnower accepting such a challenge. Me. Is that clear?"
"You got it," Grakke said, and the deep rumble of his voice was ironclad assurance as the two of them clasped arms once more. "Now go and talk to your dad."
Five minutes later, Arha emerged from her chamber as promised, having donned her battle regalia and clipped one of her twenty-seven swords and sabres to her belt. A short nod, and then they were off.
Arha's armor was of unusual make. While 'standard' Winnower armor was essentially pieces of interlocking bone-plate lashed to a worm-leather bodysuit, Arha's own bodysuit sported scant few pieces of plating. Essential areas were protected, yes, but much of the bodysuit remained largely bare. This modification was as much a statement as it was a matter of preference for the prodigious young warrior; fewer armor plates meant both a lighter weight and a greater range of motion, one that allowed Arha to make full use of her exceptional swordsmanship. It also sent a clear message - why should I bother to protect myself? You won't be hitting me anyway.
It was for that reason - for her distinct garb, as well as the stark-red ponytail that ran nearly down to the ground - that Arha attracted a myriad of stares the moment she stepped out onto the street.
The barracks might be the home of the Winnowers alone - but outside, the vast majority of the city was a part of Providence, the provincial district in which the average citizenry dwelt. These were average folk of adequate education, ordinary men and women who had for centuries been allowed to live in peace within the Winnowers' violent shadow. They knew nothing of Winnower rituals and traditions, and amongst their number the Old Tongue was all but forgotten. To them, the Winnowers were essentially curiosities, albeit curiosities to be feared and avoided - but they knew Arha. Oh, they knew Arha well, for the young Eltok had made a reputation for herself by breaking tradition and choosing to fight her duels not in the cloistered barracks but out in the open - in Providence, where any average citizen could come and see as Arha dismantled opponent after opponent.
It was for that reason that the bustling street corner now cleared at once as Arha and her escort strode forward, the young Eltok adopting on instinct a haughty and imperious stance - even as her heart swelled with pride and delight. While some citizens avoided her eyes, others bowed or saluted or even called her by name, though none would dare speak directly or impede her path.
Five minutes of pure, unmitigated ego-stroking - and then Arha passed through the double-doors of the First Barracks and was immersed in a world of violence and death once more.
"You know the way?" her escort asked, simply, to which Arha met his eye and gave him a slight nod. "You may proceed then. May His Teeth Be Sharp, Bloodied One."
"May His Stomach Be Full," Arha replied, giving another courteous nod. And then she was off, striding down the halls of the First Barracks as though she owned the place. They were quiet, today, largely devoid of warriors in any shape or form, and Arha reminded herself that much of First Host had been dispatched under command of Vekken, a long-respected veteran.
Of course, they were all respected veterans. While neophyte Winnowers were dispersed equally between the Second and Third Hosts (though it was an open secret that the Second Host got first pick of the finest recruits), it was only through a full decade of exceptional service that a Winnower might gain entry to Tekarn's legendary fighting force. Most Winnowers didn't even make it a full twelve months; a full decade was nothing short of an astonishing achievement. Not even the lowliest First Host Winnower was ever to be taken lightly. Arha had sparred with several of them and even killed one, once, and she had found them just as dangerous an difficult to kill as their reputation implied.
Finally, Arha came to a stop outside Tekarn's sanctum - and she turned to regard the man leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded and his eyes closed faux-sleep.
"Gekto," Arha said stiffly, and one of those eyes opened to reveal an orb of deep, dull black.
That curly black hair, that lithe form, that tan skin - that cruel, perpetual half-smirk. This man, too, was unmistakable. This was Gekto, Tekarn's second-in-command, and the man they called the Red Viper.
"Arha," Gekto smirked, saying her name as though it was some hilarious, secret witticism to be kept close between them. "I see that Kelsen hasn't cut your throat yet."
Arha didn't like Gekto - but then again, who did? Tekarn's Shadow flaunted openly that he was everything most Winnowers were not. Underhanded. A cheat. A sadist. Gekto was notorious amongst his fellow warriors for his preferred pastime - goading unsuspecting victims into duels they had no chance of winning. Indeed, rumor had it that Gekto had won more duels than any Winnower, alive or dead. These days he acted as Tekarn's knife in the dark, an assassin and torturer both, and broadly speaking his face was the last one you ever wanted to see.
And now Arha was staring right at him. Even now she could practically smell death reeking off him in waves as he looked her over with dark eyes.
"Kelsen?" Arha snorted. Despite it all, Gekto stood no chance of intimidating her. As Tekarn's Shadow, he had been an all-too-frequent presence in her early life. These days she found his entire schtick rather boring and tired, though how much was a schtick and how much was just him she wasn't exactly certain. "How do you manage to say shit like that with a straight face?"
"Practice," Gekto chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "But seriously, Arha, isn't this exciting? I mean, you killed Kagen!" His wolf's-grin grew ever-wider. "Who knows what the Second Host are gonna do to you now."
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Arha couldn't tell if that was a threat, a warning, or just the sadistic Shadow savoring another's misfortune as he was often wont to do. But she had no intention of humoring him any further. She reached up and knocked twice on the door, then pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
Had anyone - anyone else - done such an impertinent thing, Tekarn might very well have cut them down on the spot. But, of course, to Tekarn Arha was far from just anyone.
"Morning, Tekarn," Arha said, kicking the door shut behind her without further ado. "Surely you know that I would've come to see you anyway, right? There's really no need to be sending people out to fetch me."
His eyes flicked up - and instantly Arha was on the spot, a young and inexperienced neophyte learning under the stern gaze of the greatest living Winnower. Her breath caught, and involuntarily she straightened her posture.
The man before her looked as though he were forged from solid steel itself. He was in his fifties, his black hair streaked with violent lines of grey, and his square-jawed face sported a ghost of dark stubble. Only a half-dozen times in her life had Arha ever seen the man smile. Every part of him was a demonstration of perfect, relentless control - a true pinnacle of unyielding discipline.
This was the man who had brought Arha - the only survivor of a recently-slaughtered village - into the Winnowers when she was but a child. This was the man who had taken her as his one and only discipline, raising her as both a warrior and a daughter both. This was the man who had decided, from the moment he laid eyes upon her, that Arha would be something exceptional.
"Arha," he said flatly. "Sit."
Arha did as she was told. As cold and uncaring as his voice sounded, Arha had known him for long enough that she could immediately detect the hint of warmth in his words, and she knew at once that her lifelong mentor was proud of her. Her heart swelled with elation that she did not dare openly display.
"You killed Kagen," Tekarn said, a simple and emotionless declaration of fact. "No small feat."
"No small feat indeed," Arha agreed, channeling every bit of willpower she possessed to keep herself from breaking into a grin. "With the aid of the wa'tek, he fought like a younger man. I shudder to imagine dueling the former Second Eltok in his prime."
"I fought him twice, in our youth," Tekarn said, he himself a former neophyte of the Third Host, "over disagreements that could not be resolved with words. I found him an intelligent and resourceful fighter, one with a sharp eye for any opening or opportunity. It was only with great effort that I was able to defeat him."
Arha nodded, saying nothing. It was a well-known fact that Tekarn had never once lost a duel. His was perhaps the only face among the Winnowers to remain completely devoid of scars, even in his advanced age.
"He nearly killed you once," Tekarn continued, "some number of years ago. I'm sure you remember."
"I'm sure I do," Arha replied dryly. After Arha dueled and killed Kagen's star pupil - a long story indeed - the furious Second Eltok had nearly cut the young Winnower down in a fit of rage. It was only by Gekto's chance intervention - by his mocking smile, by the hand on the hilt of his dagger that silently asked Kagen do you really wanna go down this road - that Arha had been spared the older man's wrath.
"I am heartened to see you best him now, then," Tekarn said. "In just a few short years the, the gulf in prowess between you has been entirely closed. Every day you grow by leaps and bounds. In time, I am certain you will best even me."
"That'll be the day," Arha scoffed - but in truth this was perhaps the highest praise her mentor had ever heaped upon her, and now she was all but delirious with ardor and zeal. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to fight again, to not just destroy but humiliate an opponent before a wild, deafening crowd. She craved with all her being to once again exist at the center of it all.
"But," Tekarn said, and Arha's mood dropped off the face of a cliff, "that was a dangerous and shortsighted thing you just did."
Gone was the hint of warmth from his voice.
"I know the Second Host will be-" Arha began, in her defense.
"Think not of the Second," Tekarn interrupted sharply. "Think of the Grand Lord. Think of his decades-long friendship with the man you killed. Think of Kagen's hateful son, who even now runs straight to Bartok's arms. And think of the danger you now pose."
"The danger...?" Arha trailed off. "To whom? I have no intention of further antagonizing the Second. This was a personal dispute, one that I resolved in full accordance with our laws and ways."
"Listen closely, discipline," Tekarn said, his voice going low. "You are an iconoclast. Before you, the Third Host - the misfits, the rejects, the youngest of the Winnowers - were all but perpetually downtrodden. But under you, a peerless warrior and my chosen protege, the Third have transformed into something truly dangerous. Your warriors are ambitious, and your warriors are hungry, and every time you preen and pose before the commoners of Providence you give only the appearance of a woman for whom the title of Eltok will never be enough."
"That's-absurd!" Arha stammered, genuinely taken aback. What in the Seven Wastes was he talking about?! Arha had only ever strove for her own self-perfection. Her only ambition was to be the greatest and most renowned Winnower in history - to hell with being Grand Lord! She had killed her predecessor and become Third Eltok simply because it had long been expected of her!
"Far from it," Tekarn replied, shaking his head incrementally. "Gekto has heard countless whispers of the encroaching 'Arha threat' - and those whispers have only increased in volume and number after last night. You represent the new generation, Arha, a swelling wave that will one day inevitably sweep away the old. And it is that old generation will do anything to delay that coming wave."
"So, what?" Arha demanded, growing angrier by the second - her mask of imperious control temporarily forgotten. "I should have forgiven that loathsome creature for luring my people into a trap? What message do you think that would have sent, hmm? Do you believe he would have simply stopped there? Strength is Law, Tekarn, you know that! You can do anything you like if you're strong enough. But if you're weak?" She drew a finger across her throat. "Kagen was weak. I hope his soul rots in the deepest pit of the Worm's stomach."
"You are being..." Tekarn said, his words clipped and cold - a surefire indication that the man was absolutely furious, now. "...deliberately obtuse."
"What would you have done in my place, then?"
"That's not the point!" Tekarn snapped. "What happened, happened. The past is immutable! But the present is rife with danger."
"Speak plainly," Arha demanded, folding her arms. She was no longer the young neophyte - she was the Third Eltok, and the man before her was no master but an equal. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do."
Tekarn was silent for a long moment. And then:
"Protect yourself," he said, simply. "Tread carefully. Tread lightly. Do not expose yourself and do not expose your Host. Remain meek and anonymous and unseen. Those are all the words of advice I can offer to you."
"You won't speak in my defense, then?" Arha blurted out.
"Of course I will," Tekarn replied sharply. "But there are forces beyond me at work here. The Grand Lord, the Director of Providence. The High Celebrant himself. All of their eyes are upon you, now. And if you are not careful-"
There was a creak of the door - and both their heads whipped around to see Gekto's leering face.
"Hey, Arha," he smirked. "You should probably know that one of your honor guard just got into a fight."
"Which one-" Tekarn started.
"Makran!" Arha shouted, already shooting to her feet. "Worm take her!"
Before Tekarn could say any more, Arha was already out the door. As her hurried footsteps echoed down the hall, Gekto stepped like an agile cat into the room, soundlessly closing the door behind him. He met the First Eltok's eyes, and for once the Shadow did not smile.
"The meeting with the Grand Lord draws near," he said, folding his arms. "We should depart at once."
"I am well aware," Tekarn said, waving the other man away. His gaze turned downcast, and within his head a restless storm churned. "Just...give me a moment."
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"When I tell you to do something, you fucking do it!" Grakke roared. "You don't turn around and do the srelak opposite!"
"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!" Makran spat back. "I don't give a damn what you or anyone else has to say about-"
Arha burst through the door and found herself amidst a scene of chaos and uncertainty. Nearly a dozen Winnowers watched in restless half-gear as Grakke and Makran engaged in a red-faced shouting match. To the side stood the adopted brothers, Nageth and Zekval, the former with arms folded and a stern, disapproving expression on his face while the latter was slumped, trying it seemed to simply fold into himself and vanish. And behind them both stood a weary Draven, whom it seemed had given up entirely on any attempt to separate the two warriors.
These five were Arha's honor guard - an outdated term, for in truth they acted moreso as her lieutenants. Four were Arha's lifelong friends, while the fifth, the elder Draven, was perhaps the most respected man in all the Third Host. These were the people Arha trusted the most in the entire world.
Right now, they were all either bickering or standing uselessly.
"So don't you try to- Arha!" Makran exclaimed, her fury instantly giving way to elation as all heads turned to meet the approaching Eltok. She ran towards Arha, arms outstretched, the argument with Grakke instantly forgotten.
"What the fuck?" Arha demanded, and Makran skidded to a halt. The Bloodied One stormed forward now, her grey eyes brimming with intensity. Tekarn's words were still bouncing and rolling around on the inside of her skull.
"Hey, listen-" Makran started.
"She beat a Second Host lad to death," Grakke rumbled, folding his massive arms. "Two others are crippled beyond repair, their legs all but destroyed. The Second will no doubt cut their throats before dawn."
Arha was quiet for a moment, and then: "Out. All of you."
The rank-and-file Winnowers shuffled away at once, their bone-plate shoulders knocking noisily against one another as they filed out, and only when the door was well and firmly shut did Arha let out a long sigh, reaching up and pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Makran," she ordered. "Explain yourself."
Though Makran hardly cut an imposing figure - a short-statured, filthy young woman with unkempt brown hair cut down to her neck and a pair of wide, wild eyes - she was perhaps the fiercest warrior in Arha's employ. Nowhere had Arha met a Winnower more vicious, more feral - nowhere had she met a Winnower who loved the fight as much as Makran did. But just like everything else about her, Makran's emotions were wild and unrestrained, and it was only because of her ironclad loyalty to her Eltok that she was not quite literally impossible for Arha to manage.
"I found those three gve'ka pussies backing poor Zek into a corner," Makran said plainly, unapologetic and unashamed. "Zek's good with a knife, I know, but three-on-one? Seemed like shit odds to me. So," she shrugged, casually, and it was only then that Arha noticed her hands were still wet with blood, "I took care of it."
"You bashed one's skull in and gouged another's eyes," Grakke growled, from behind her. "You bit off a man's ear!"
"And he got it back! I spit it out when I was done!" Makran shouted, throwing up her hands. "Arha, come on, what was I supposed to do - watch em hack Zekval to pieces?"
"Look, Arha," Nageth interjected, stepping between them. Ever the peacekeeper, Nageth, the dark-skinned warrior was as close to an agreeable Winnower as one was ever likely to find. Whether on the battlefield or anywhere else, Nageth was a stoic and unflinching constant, a man whom those unaware of his profession might even have dubbed easygoing. It was he who had declared Zekval his brother and strove from day one to protect the younger, weaker Winnower from harm. The bond between the two of them was all but unbreakable. "I know this situation with the Second is bad. But fact is they attacked my brother completely without warning. These three were armed and armored, and Zekval had nothing but a pair of throwing daggers on him. You woulda lost an honor guard if Makran hadn't been there, plain and simple."
"And I do, uh, appreciate it, by the way," Zekval added, quietly. That man - that meek, pale, bald-headed young man - that right there was Arha's secret weapon. Dismissed and ridiculed by his peers as too weak to ever be a full-blooded Winnower, unbeknownst to any Zekval had spent his time honing and developing his own set of unique skills. The man was an astoundingly effective spy, scout, and thief, and like Gekto did for Tekarn he was often conscripted to make the right people disappear for Arha at the right time. And though he was oftentimes shy and silent, when he was truly comfortable Arha knew him to be a man of surprisingly sharp tongue and cutting witticism. That he was so routinely looked down upon by his fellow Winnowers had, in time, turned to something that both he and Arha could use to their advantage.
"Oh, come on," Makran drawled, embracing the bald-headed Honor Guard against his will and shaking him rather violently. "Like I'd let those filthy gve'kas lay a finger on any of you."
"None of you understand," Arha snapped, drawing the attention back to herself at once. They were all listening intently, now. Her closest confidants. Her inner circle. Her childhood friends. "The danger here goes way beyond just the Second Host."
"It's the Triumvirate, isn't it," a raspy voice sounded for the first time.
The last of their number was Draven - a true anomaly among the Winnowers, for he had somehow managed to survive all the way to the age of sixty-seven. Thin and grey-haired though he was, his arms still sported the scars and corded muscle that marked him as a full-blooded Winnower, and within his head was a lifetime of knowledge utterly without compare. It was he who had trained the vast majority of the Third Host, as well as most of the Honor Guard - save for Arha, who had learned at Tekarn's feet, and Makran, who Draven had deemed 'unteachable' and who fought with no consistent style or form. Arha might be their leader, and Grakke might well have been the biggest and loudest - but when Draven spoke, you listened. It was as simple as that.
"Yeah," Arha said, after an uncomfortable moment. "It is."
"The Triumvirate?!" Makran blurted out. "What do Providence and the Celebrants have to do with any of us?"
"Have you heard something?" Nageth asked, taking a step closer. "What's got you worried, Ar?"
But it was Grakke, his brow knit tight together, who figured it out first.
"You're getting too big too fast," he rumbled. "They're scared of you, aren't they?"
"Yeah," was again the only reply Arha could muster. "That's what Tekarn thinks."
"And it's not just that," Zekval interjected, quietly, after a moment. "This morning, Kagen's son - Kelsen, the new Eltok - he spent hours up in the Grand Lord's chamber. Or, uh, so I've heard."
"Has Bartok spoken to you at all?" Nageth asked, to which Arha merely shook her head. "Shit," he hissed.
"I've seen this before," Draven said, and again all heads turned to regard the elder Winnower. His words were laden heavy now with weary, somber experience. "Time and time again, the Third has risen only to be smashed down into the dirt by those who lord above it. Time and time again I raised a new generation only to watch them butchered, helpless against the boots pressing down on their necks. And time and time again, it is Bartok who orchestrates our undoing." He raised a thin, trembling finger - and pointed it straight at Arha. "And is Tekarn who stands idly by and watches."
Silence - and then:
"Don't be fucking stupid," Makran scoffed - and then, remembering to whom she was speaking, she quickly reeled in her tone. "Sorry. But seriously, Draven, that's practically his daughter over there. He's not gonna let some fat-ass Grand Lord or some psychotic teenage gve'ka whelp threaten her like that."
"Makran's right," Nageth agreed, after a moment's consternation. "Things'll be different this time - right, Arha?"
The Third Eltok said nothing. A lifetime of memories flashed across her mind - and then, just one: Tekarn, then a terrifying and otherworldly figure, taking her newly orphaned self by the hand and telling her I will make you into something that nobody in this entire world can ever lay harm to.
She swallowed, and when Arha looked up at her allies her mouth was drawn into a thin, tight line.
"You're damn right," she declared, her steel eyes brimming with certainty. "If Bartok and Kelsen want to start a fight, I think they'll soon find they've bit off far more than they can chew. And besides-" she spread her arms, and a cocky smile crept up her face "-everyone should know by now that I'm not in the habit of losing fights."
"Ha!" Makran laughed, bouncing forward, and she and Arha clasped arms just as the Third Eltok had done with Grakke that morning. "Let 'em come! We'll fill the Worm's belly with those dumb fucks!"
Slowly, the mood returned - the others talking animatedly amongst themselves, now, as Arha and Grakke discussed plans and orders for the near future. The Third would play it safe for now, keeping their heads relatively low - but they would take no shit, and they wouldn't hesitate to take on the Triumvirate themselves if such a thing needed doing. The morning's first order of business, they agreed, was that Arha would meet with Tekarn and secure for a certainty his loyalty in any such upcoming conflict.
Yet even as the atmosphere swelled with collective pride - and even a certain eager anticipation for the potential battles ahead - Arha couldn't help but catch the eye of old Draven, who was still standing there in silence with that same look of sad, tired resignation upon his face. And in the deepest chamber of Arha's heart a seed of worry began to take root.
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And it was because of that seed of worry that it came as no surprise when Arha's door was smashed open in the dead of night. Torchlight from the hall painted the scene in vivid, shadowy umber as Arha leapt forward like a thing possessed, a sword already in her hand and a furious snarl upon her lips.
The first attacker fell at once, his throat open and spraying blood, while the other died mere seconds later as Arha parried his blow and jabbed her blade up and under his chin. A third dropped to his knees, grasping wordlessly at his own steaming entrails, and it was only then - as Arha stood there, panting heavily, having just killed three men in the blink of an eye - that she saw who they were: Winnowers, all of them, their armor painted in the crimson of the First Host.
And standing there in the doorway, expression unreadable and hands clasped tight behind his back, was none other than the First Eltok.
"Arha," Tekarn said, the word coming out clipped and stilted. "I'm sorry."
Arha didn't hesitate for even a second. Before the last syllable had left his lips, she shot forward like a bolt of pure electricity, her blade little more than a gleaming blur as it raced towards the heart of the man she had never quite dared call a father.
And so Tekarn stepped forward to meet her.