Chapter - 18 Of beasts and man

The night after the hunt lingered in their bones, fatigue pressing like stone, yet sleep offered little reprieve. Lyra sat by the dying embers of their small fire, holding the child she had freed. Her hands were streaked with ash and blood, yet she traced the child’s hair gently, whispering reassurances she barely felt. Dorian stood a little apart, the shard resting heavily in his palm, pulsing like a heartbeat. Its light was faint, almost mournful, as if acknowledging the cost of the hunt and the promise of more to come.

Ravyn paced near the treeline, his eyes scanning the shadows. He felt… different. It was subtle at first, a tingling along his spine, a sharpening of every sense. The wind carried the scent of the trees, the soil, the distant predator, and the faint metallic tang of blood from the broken wagons. He flexed his jaw, startled to feel his canine teeth slightly elongated, the edges sharp. His fists itched with strength, his movements felt faster, sharper, like a coiled spring.

Lyra noticed immediately. “Ravyn…” Her voice was sharp, a mixture of fear and disgust. “What’s happening to you?”

He turned, eyes catching the faint moonlight. They glimmered with a strange luminescence, pale gold, almost feline. “It’s power,” he said, voice low, steady, yet tinged with wonder. “Something… awakening. I feel it in every fiber of me.”

Dorian stepped closer, concern gnawing at him. “Be careful. You can’t just embrace it blindly. This… this isn’t human. It’s essence awakening—Feralborn lineage. It can take control if you let it.”

Ravyn’s lips curled into a small, feral grin. “Control is for the weak. Strength is power. If this is what it takes to survive, to fight the Dominion… then I accept it.”

Lyra’s hands clenched around the child, though she did not speak. She hated what she saw, feared the monster growing in the man she had trusted. Dorian placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. “It’s part of him. But it’s not all of him. He can choose.”

The Seer, sitting cross-legged near the fire, finally spoke. “The Feralborn awakening is rare, primal. It will heighten senses, reflexes, strength. But it feeds on emotion—fear, anger, hunger. If Ravyn cannot master it, it will master him.”

Ravyn exhaled, letting the tension leave his shoulders in a slow, controlled motion. “Then I will master it. No Dominion, no cursed shard, no fear… nothing will stand in my way.”

On the other hand, Rebel survivors who got out from the shattered catacombs most of them scattered. They started to see Dorian as a curse because of shard, some got too scared after seeing the path Dorian’s rebellion has taken so they left. There are only six people remains other than Dorian, seer, Ravyn and Lyra. Those who remained had a strong will to fight against dominion.

Kira, perched silently on a nearby log, flicked her eyes toward him. “You’re walking a knife’s edge. Don’t cut us all down when you fall,” she muttered. Her tone was sarcastic, but Dorian saw the concern behind her green eyes.

Jarik, sprawled lazily against a rock, whistled softly. “Well, if he wants to get in the Dominion’s face with teeth and claws, I’m not stopping him. But careful—monsters tend to eat friends first.”

Lyssa adjusted her satchel of herbs, murmuring softly. “Primal essence is dangerous. Both for him… and for those around him. We must watch.”

Selene melted into the shadows nearby, silently observing, her blue eyes unblinking. She did not speak, but Dorian knew she understood the balance of power and danger this awakening carried.

The next morning, the group moved with purpose toward the borderlands. The terrain changed, the earth hard and uneven, broken by shallow ravines and sparse vegetation. The cursed lands seemed less twisted here, though scars of Dominion violence were everywhere—burned fields, bones scattered in shallow graves, remnants of villages destroyed for resisting oppression.

In the distance, smoke rose from a cluster of huts, far older and less uniform than any Dominion settlement. The smell of cooking fires mingled with smoke from ritual pyres. The group slowed, hiding behind a ridge.

“It’s a tribal settlement,” the Seer said quietly, almost reverently. “These people worship fragments of the Fallen Gods. They’ve survived outside Dominion control for generations, but they trust few outsiders… and fewer who carry relics.”

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Dorian’s grip tightened on the shard. He could feel the weight of expectation and fear emanating from it, and he knew the locals would sense it too. “We must tread carefully. If they see this as a curse, they will not welcome us. They may even attack.”

Lyra’s jaw tightened. “I don’t care what they call us. If they stand with the Dominion, they will die. If they stand against… maybe they’ll survive.”

Ravyn’s gaze swept the settlement. “Let’s find allies first. Strength and presence will earn their trust faster than words. But we move cautiously. Dominion spies could be nearby.”

As they descended toward the village, the locals became aware of them. Figures emerged from huts, armed with spears, axes, and crude bows. Their eyes were wary, flickering with suspicion and barely-contained fear. Some bore tattoos and ritual scars—symbols of devotion to ancient gods and battles survived.

An elder priest stepped forward, ornate staff in hand, adorned with fragments of gold and stone, faintly glowing with essence. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the group, lingering on Dorian and the shard. “What brings outsiders to our lands?” His voice carried authority. “And why do you carry that?”

Dorian stepped forward, holding the shard in open palm but not raising it as a threat. “We seek refuge and allies. We fight the Dominion, the oppressors who would enslave all free people. This shard… is a weapon, yes, but it is also a burden. We do not seek to curse you, only to survive and resist.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed. “A weapon from the age of gods, yet it carries the whispers of the fallen. Such power is not given lightly, and never without consequence. How do we know you are chosen… and not doomed?”

Ravyn, eyes glimmering faintly gold in the dusk, stepped beside Dorian. He felt the power within him surge briefly, his primal senses alert to the villagers’ hesitation, their fear of the unknown. “We are not here to prove ourselves,” he said, voice low and steady. “We are here to survive. And if we must fight to do so, we will.”

Lyra’s hand rested lightly on the child she carried. “We are not invaders,” she said. “We seek allies, not slaves or subjects. Help us, or step aside. That is our choice.”

Kira stepped forward, her daggers strapped across her chest, eyes flicking over the surrounding villagers. “We mean no harm,” she said, voice calm but firm. “But if the Dominion shows up, none of us will survive alone.”

The priest studied them, then gestured to a long hut at the center of the village. “You will stay, but not without scrutiny. The shard, the black flame… they are dangerous. You will be watched, and your intentions judged.”

Inside the central hut, the group met other tribal leaders. Small fires illuminated carved wooden masks, ceremonial weapons, and fragments of essence artifacts that glowed faintly. Lyssa moved carefully among them, whispering words of peace and connection, offering salves and healing to demonstrate goodwill.

The survivors who had joined Dorian—Kira, Tovan, Lyssa, Jarik, Selene, Garrick—helped demonstrate their sincerity. Each took turns speaking with the leaders, showing their skills, recounting the Dominion atrocities they had witnessed, and proving their loyalty to Dorian and the rebellion.

Yet tension remained high. Every eye in the room flicked to Dorian, lingering on the shard. Every whisper of the villagers carried fear and suspicion. And beneath it all, Ravyn felt a pull—a scent, a memory. Among the trophies adorning the hut’s walls, he saw it: the insignia of a Dominion commander, a mark he had seen during campaigns under his former master. Rage stirred in him, primal and consuming.

His body reacted before his mind could. His senses sharpened, eyes glowing brighter, teeth lengthening further. His muscles tensed, ready to spring. Dorian noticed immediately. “Ravyn, control it!” he warned, stepping close.

Ravyn exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax, but the tension did not leave him entirely. “It’s power,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I will not let the Dominion escape me again. Not this time.”

Lyra shot him a glance, one of warning. “Monsters kill without thought,” she said. “Do not let that anger define you.”

But Ravyn only grinned, a hint of feral instinct in his features. “Then let the monster fight for the right cause.”

The night deepened, bringing uneasy quiet. Dorian studied the villagers, their wariness palpable. He could feel the shard vibrating faintly, as if aware of Ravyn’s awakening and the tension in the hut.

Outside, the survivors helped set defenses, checking the perimeter, whispering plans. Kira and Selene marked likely Dominion approaches, Tovan reinforced weak points, Jarik positioned traps, and Lyssa whispered prayers to stabilize Ravyn’s surging essence. Garrick conferred with Ravyn, teaching him control through precise movements and awareness.

As the group settled, the weight of reality pressed on all of them. Dominion forces would not ignore the rebellion’s activities. The tribal settlement was a fragile sanctuary, temporary and tense. Dorian realized that being “chosen” meant sacrifice, mistrust, and constant vigilance. And Ravyn’s primal awakening promised both a weapon and a potential danger to the very people they sought to protect.

Morning light broke over the village, filtering through smoke and mist. The settlement stirred, children appearing from huts, warriors practicing with spears, and priests performing minor rituals to honor the fallen gods. Dorian, Lyra, and Ravyn stood together at the edge, looking out over the fields. Each of them felt the gravity of what was to come. Allies could be won or lost, the shard’s burden remained, and Ravyn’s beastly power threatened to both save and destroy.

And somewhere beyond the ridge, Dominion scouts likely watched, waiting for a moment of weakness.

The rebellion had gained ground, but the cost of survival—primal awakenings, distrust, and the shadow of vengeance—was only beginning to show its teeth.