Chapter 15: Mourning the King Chief

The sun rose over Sundial Mesa in streaks of muted gold and orange, its light hesitant, as if mourning alongside the tribes. The fires of the night's battle had long since burned out, leaving behind charred wood, scorched earth, and the acrid tang of loss. A heavy silence blanketed the camp, broken only by the distant rustle of desert winds and the murmured prayers of grieving warriors.

Kael lingered on the edge of the gathering, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the rocky ground. At the center of the camp, Talar's body lay beneath a ceremonial cloth, his broken staff resting beside him. The once-bright sun symbols on his tunic seemed dulled, their vibrancy stolen by death.

The tribes stood in a wide circle, their faces drawn and solemn. They were a mixture of hardened warriors and weary elders, their scars and wrinkles etched with years of struggle. Yet none of them, not even the most battle-hardened, looked ready to face what lay before them without Talar. He had been their anchor, their steady hand in an unforgiving world.

Kael could barely look at him. Every glance was a fresh stab of guilt, each whisper from the crowd a dagger aimed at his heart. He felt Tayo's presence nearby, a steady, silent support, but it did little to ease the weight crushing his chest.

From the center of the circle, Marek's voice rose, steady and commanding. "We have lost more than a leader," he began, his tone heavy with grief. "We have lost a father, a guide, and the unifying force that held us together. Talar was more than just a king chief—he was the soul of the tribes."

Kael's fists clenched at his sides as Marek's words rippled through the crowd. He hated how perfectly they were crafted, how Marek knew exactly what to say to sway the hearts of the people.

"But now," Marek continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered faces, "we are left to pick up the pieces of his legacy. And to do that, we must face hard truths."

The murmurs in the crowd stilled, the weight of Marek's words pressing down like a physical force.

Kael shifted uneasily, sensing the trap before it fully sprung.

"Talar's death was not the fault of one man," Marek said, his voice softening just enough to feign understanding. "War is cruel, and battles are unpredictable. But leadership—true leadership—requires foresight, patience, and above all, wisdom."

Kael's stomach twisted. He knew where this was going.

"We must ensure that such a tragedy never happens again," Marek continued, his tone sharpening. "Kael, though noble in his intentions, was not ready for the burden placed upon him. And that... is on all of us. We expected too much, too soon."

Kael's breath caught as the eyes of the crowd turned toward him. Some gazes held pity, others doubt. A few burned with quiet blame.

"I do not say this to condemn," Marek said quickly, raising his hands. "Kael is young. In time, with proper guidance, he may grow into the leader Talar believed he could be. But for now, we must be cautious. We must tread carefully as we decide the path forward."

The murmurs returned, a wave of unease rippling through the crowd.

Kael felt a lump rise in his throat, his chest tightening with every word. Marek's speech had been masterful—blame disguised as wisdom, doubt cloaked in concern. And the worst part was, Kael couldn't argue. Marek was right. He hadn't been ready.

As the gathering dispersed, Kael turned and walked away, his movements stiff and mechanical. Tayo called after him, his voice low and hesitant, but Kael didn't stop. He needed to be alone, away from the stares, the whispers, and the crushing weight of failure.

Kael found himself at the edge of the mesa, the jagged rocks overlooking the endless expanse of desert below. The wind whipped at his tunic, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and blood. He dropped to his knees, his spear clattering to the ground beside him, and buried his face in his hands.

The memories of the battle swirled in his mind, sharp and unrelenting. Jek's lifeless body sprawled in the sand. Talar's broken staff falling from his grasp. Marek's solemn expression as he delivered the news.

It was all his fault. He had begged to join the patrol, convinced that it would be his chance to prove himself. Instead, he had hesitated, faltered, and failed. And now his father was gone.

"What am I doing here?" Kael whispered, his voice raw. "I'm not a leader. I never was."

"You're not wrong."

Kael stiffened at the voice, familiar and cutting. He turned to see Marek stepping out of the shadows, his golden cloak gleaming faintly in the early morning light.

"Marek," Kael said, his tone wary. He pushed himself to his feet, though his legs felt unsteady.

Marek raised a hand, his expression calm. "Relax, nephew. I'm not here to chastise you."

Kael didn't respond, his fists clenching at his sides.

Marek approached slowly, his gaze steady and unyielding. "I know how much this is weighing on you, Kael. Losing Talar... it's not something you'll recover from overnight."

Kael's throat tightened. "I don't need your sympathy."

"It's not sympathy," Marek said, his tone blunt. "It's reality. You've been thrust into a position you're not ready for, and now the tribes are looking to you to fill Talar's shoes. That's a burden no one could bear, least of all someone your age."

Kael flinched at the words, but he couldn't deny their truth.

"You're not ready," Marek continued, stepping closer. "And that's okay. But you need to understand something, Kael. Leadership isn't about good intentions or hope. It's about strength. Resolve. The ability to make decisions that others can't."

Kael looked away, his chest tightening.

"I'm not saying this to hurt you," Marek said, his voice softening. "I'm saying it because the tribes need a leader now more than ever. Someone who can guide them through the storm ahead."

Kael turned to face him, his jaw tightening. "And you think that's you."

Marek smiled faintly. "I think the tribes deserve stability. And if I can offer that, why shouldn't I?"

Kael's fists clenched. "My father trusted me to lead."

"And look where that trust got him," Marek said, his tone sharp.

Kael's vision blurred with rage and grief. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Marek stepped closer, his gaze piercing. "This isn't a game, Kael. This is survival. The tribes can't afford to indulge your insecurities. They need someone who can act."

Kael's breath hitched as Marek's words sank in. The doubt that had been festering in his mind erupted, threatening to consume him.

"You have a choice to make," Marek said, his tone softening again. "Step aside and let someone else bear the burden—or prove that you're worthy of it."

Marek lingered for a moment longer, his gaze steady, before turning and walking away. His golden cloak billowed faintly in the wind, a symbol of the power he coveted.

Kael stood frozen, his mind racing. Marek's words echoed in his ears, mingling with his own doubts and fears. He looked out over the desert, the vast expanse of sand stretching endlessly before him, and felt the weight of his father's legacy pressing down on him like a stone.

He didn't know if he could carry it.

But he didn't have a choice.