Chapter 33: Blood Right

  Night falls over the sunken city, and with it comes the familiar glow of bioluminescent coral from the waters below. The ruins take on an ethereal quality in the moonlight, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

  Hynnal gathers his remaining forces for what I assume is a planning session. The Gnoll leader has the large core stone from the trial displayed prominently.

  "Even from a distance, I can see this one is much larger than those in Magba's satchel, and I notice how its light affects everyone."

  The other Gnolls keep glancing at it with barely concealed hunger. Even we slaves feel the pull.

  That's power. Real, tangible and magical power. The kind that could elevate Hynnal's status within his tribe, or who knows, maybe it is even the catalyst that could make him an Alpha.

  I notice the Stalker, that creepy Gnoll with adaptive camouflage, hasn't taken his eyes off me since we returned. Not constantly watching, but checking. Periodic glances that set my scales crawling.

  Does he hold a grudge for the fight? Or did he see me pocket the crystal shard?

  I force myself not to react, not to touch the hidden crystal or give any sign of guilt. Just another exhausted slave, recovering from trauma. Nothing suspicious here.

  Gorvash notices my tension. "What's wrong?"

  "The Stalker. He's watching me."

  Gorvash glances over casually, then nods. "He watches everyone. That's what those creeps do."

  Maybe. But I can't shake the feeling that this is different. More focused.

  "I should check on the others," I say, needing to move, to do something other than sit and worry.

  The only remaining Bog Goblin huddles alone near the platform's edge, staring out at the water with vacant eyes. When I approach, it flinches violently.

  "Safe," I say in broken Gnoll. "No fight now."

  It looks at me with those bulging yellow eyes, and I see the same haunted quality I saw in the Kor’ik. Something broke in this creature during the trial. Maybe all of us broke a little. In his case this is even worse, having lost his two companions.

  I sit nearby, not too close, just present. Sometimes that's all you can offer.

  I hear the sharp whistle of something fast and heavy cutting through the air."

  The Silent Frogman is doing exercises near the platform's far edge, his powerful legs flexing and extending using the weights as wrecking balls. The motion is methodical, controlled, each repetition performed with perfect form.

  After everything we've been through almost drowning, and here he is, completing his routine as if we'd just had a normal day. As if discipline matters more than exhaustion.

  And I believe I understand now what killed the Gnoll with the crushed skull back in the last trial.

  When he notices me watching, he stops mid-rep and meets my gaze directly. For a long moment, we just look at each other across the stone platform. The memory of of my desperate dive to free him, hangs between us unspoken.

  Then he nods, once. A slight incline of his head, barely perceptible, but unmistakable.

  An acknowledgment.

  I nod back.

  No words needed. We both survived, and we both know what that required.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Hours pass. The blue moon rises higher while the amber one starts its descent, creating that familiar interplay of light that I've come to associate with this world's nights.

  I should sleep. My body desperately needs rest. But every time I close my eyes, I see shadows moving in the darkness. Hear muffled screams.

  This is another trauma that will surely linger. Probably forever.

  Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift into an uneasy sleep, plagued by nightmares of darkness and violence.

  But beneath the nightmares, something else stirs.

  That white shard, hidden in my clothing, pulses with gentle warmth against my chest. And my core stone responds, resonating with the crystal's presence.

  They're communicating, somehow. Not with words, but with something more fundamental.

  In my dreams, I see symbols. Not the writhing script from the trial's archway, but simpler patterns. Geometric shapes that my scientific mind recognizes from Earth like fibonacci spirals, and the golden ratio. Universal mathematics expressed in crystal and light.

  And beneath it all, a message I can't quite decipher yet.

  The symbols fade as consciousness returns, fragmenting like mist in sunlight. My eyes open to find the blue moon low on the horizon, the amber one already set. The sky is transforming from deep indigo to pale violet, the first hint of gold touching the eastern edge.

  Dawn is coming.

  The shard is still warm against my chest. Still humming with that subtle energy.

  Whatever it is or does, I'm connected to it now, for better or worse.

  Hynnal barks orders, rousing everyone for the day ahead. We've survived the Trial of Shadows, but the expedition isn't over. There are more ruins to explore, more treasures to claim, and we're on a deadline.

  As I stand and prepare for whatever comes next, I catch Gorvash's eye. He gives me that warrior's nod again, and I return it.

  Kor'ik approaches, still moving stiffly from his injuries. "Hynnal says we move deeper into the ruins today. Last trial was just the entrance, and the real treasures lie beyond."

  "Of course he does," I mutter.

  As the moons change phases, so do the tides, and there was a considerable drop on the water level from yesterday. This must have opened up new paths and trials for us to explore.

  The Frogman's expression is complicated. "But he also said something else. He acknowledged that we slaves helped during the trial. That we found the solution when his warriors did not."

  "Don't tell me he's suddenly grateful," I say skeptically.

  "Not grateful. But... aware.” Kor'ik pauses. "Maybe that's progress."

  Maybe. Or maybe it's just pragmatism from a leader who realizes he needs us alive if he wants to succeed.

  Either way, we'll take it.

  As the sun climbs higher and we prepare to venture deeper into the sunken city's mysteries, I touch the hidden shard one more time. Its warmth is reassuring, a promise of something yet to come.

  And somewhere, in the depths of my consciousness where human scientist and Lizardman survivor merge, I feel a certainty growing.

  This is just the beginning.

  Real transformation is still ahead.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  We move through the ruins in a loose formation, Hynnal's warriors at the front and flanks while we slaves trail behind like an afterthought. The lowered water level has revealed new passages between the ancient structures, stone walkways that were submerged yesterday, now glistening with residual moisture.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The architecture grows more impressive as we venture deeper. The remnants of grand temples or civic buildings of a civilization that understood not only physics and engineering but also probably magic in ways that have been lost.

  The Stalker suddenly raises his fist, the universal signal to halt.

  Everyone freezes. The Gnolls' ears swivel forward, searching for whatever he detected.

  Then I see it too. Fresh gouges in the moss-covered stone. Deep marks of something heavy being dragged across the surface recently.

  Hynnal crouches to examine the tracks, his scarred muzzle wrinkling as he sniffs the air. He exchanges glances with his warriors, and their rapid Gnoll speech is too much for my basic comprehension.

  “Marsh Orcs” Kor’ik clarifies. “And not long ago.”

  The tracks lead in the same direction we're heading, deeper into the ruins.

  We continue with increased caution, weapons drawn, everyone's nerves pulled taut. Even the Bog Goblin seems more alert, its bulging eyes scanning the shadows with renewed focus.

  The path opens into a vast amphitheater carved from the living stone. Tiered seating rises in concentric circles around a central platform, and at the far end stands another archway covered in those writhing glyphs. Another trial entrance.

  And standing before it, examining the archway with evident interest, are the Marsh Orcs.

  Six of them. Massive creatures with their leader making even Hynnal look small. Their skin is mottled green-grey, thick and rough like tree bark and tusks jut from their lower jaws.

  They notice us at the same moment we notice them.

  For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Two groups, and only one entrance.

  The largest Orc, wearing a necklace of what I desperately hope are animal bones, steps forward. His voice rumbles like distant thunder when he delivers what sounds like clear threats.

  Hynnal's ears flatten slightly. He gestures sharply to Kor'ik, who steps forward with visible reluctance.

  The Orc speaks again, his words a low growl of syllables I can't parse. Kor'ik listens, his body language screaming discomfort at being thrust into the role of intermediary.

  "He says..." Kor'ik's voice trembles. "He says, 'Gnoll pack. This trial is ours. Leave now.'"

  Hynnal moves to meet the Orc, stopping at a dangerously close distance. When he speaks, his Gnoll is rapid and aggressive, punctuated by sharp gestures toward the archway.

  "We arrived in the ruins first," Kor'ik translates, clearly measuring each word carefully. "He says trial belongs to the strong, and the strong are already here."

  The big Orc's response is a grunt followed by more of those grinding syllables. His tone carries unmistakable contempt. He gestures broadly at our group, lingering on us slaves with obvious dismissal, then holds up six fingers and points to his warriors.

  Kor'ik swallows hard. "He says... he says Hynnal counts slaves as strength. That true warriors know the difference between numbers and power."

  Hynnal's ears flatten against his skull. His response comes as a snarl, teeth bared, one hand on his weapon.

  "Hynnal says…" Kor'ik hesitates, then continues more quietly. "He says the Orc can test theory with his own blood if he doubts it."

  The Orc leader's eyes narrow. He studies Hynnal for a long moment, weighing something. Then he spreads his massive arms and speaks again, his tusked mouth forming words that sound like both threat and proposition.

  Kor'ik translates, his voice gaining steadiness now that he's found his rhythm. "He proposes Blood Right."

  Hynnal's ears perk forward with interest. "Blood Right." he says, and apparently this phrase needs no translation. The Orc nods in recognition.

  I lean toward Kor'ik, keeping my voice low. "What is this Blood Right?"

  "It's an old custom," he whispers back. "A single combat to the death that decides who is right, and prevents complete massacres."

  Was it the same kind of duel that Ksh’zar fought to become leader of the Lizardmen back in Magba’s vision?

  Hynnal's gaze sweeps over his available warriors as he considers his options. The decision is stark.

  Does he risk his own life on the battlefield, or dispatch the deadly Stalker as his most formidable killer?

  The Stalker, however, just steps forward. He doesn't ask permission and doesn't wait for orders. Just moves to the center of the amphitheater's floor with that unsettling fluidity while his camouflage ripples across his fur, ready for violence.

  The Orc leader gestures, and one of his warriors moves forward. Not the biggest of them, but still massive, with shoulders like boulders. He carries a heavy club studded with stone shards, and old scars crisscross his arms and chest like a roadmap of violence.

  Both fighters take their positions, circling slowly. The amphitheater's ancient stone seems to amplify the tension, as if the ruins themselves are watching.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  No one makes a sound. This isn't a spectacle to be cheered.

  The Orc attacks first, that massive club swinging in a devastating arc. The Stalker simply isn't there, he's already moved, his camouflage making him momentarily invisible against the stone.

  The club crashes into the floor with a sound like breaking bones, sending stone chips flying.

  That looked like the impact of a cannonball. One solid hit and it's over.

  The Stalker reappears behind the Orc, his drawn daggers raking across the thick hide. Dark blood wells up, but the Orc barely flinches. He spins faster than something his size should move, the club's backswing forcing the Stalker to retreat.

  They circle again. Neither commits to another exchange. The amphitheater is silent except for the scuff of feet on stone and the heavy breathing of both combatants.

  I realize I'm holding my breath and have to force myself to breathe normally again.

  The Orc is patient, not falling for feints, keeping his guard up. His small eyes track the Stalker's movements with surprising focus.

  Then the Stalker does something unexpected. He starts making noise. Clicking sounds, high-pitched and irregular, that echo off the amphitheater walls, creating a confusing auditory landscape.

  Is this some sort of magic or even echolocation? Or is it just a distraction?

  Whatever it is, it works. The Orc's head turns slightly, trying to track the sounds, and in that moment the Stalker strikes.

  He goes low, incredibly fast, his claws finding the back of the Orc's knee. The tendons there are less protected, and even that thick hide can't prevent the damage.

  The Orc's leg buckles. He catches himself before falling completely, but his mobility is compromised. Blood streams down his leg, pooling on the ancient stone.

  The Stalker circles, patient now, waiting for the injury to worsen or maybe the poison to work. But the Orc isn't finished. With a roar that reverberates through the amphitheater, he hurls his club.

  Not at the Stalker but at the ground in front of him. The studded weapon explodes stone on impact, sending a spray of deadly shrapnel in all directions.

  I see one shard catch the Stalker's shoulder, spinning him. Another cuts across his face, narrowly missing his eye.

  The Orc charges, using the distraction. His massive hands close around the Stalker's torso, and I hear ribs crack from here. The Stalker's camouflage flickers, failing under the stress.

  But even caught and broken, the Stalker doesn't panic. Instead, he does something horrifying.

  He bites down with all his devastating canine pressure.

  Contorting in the Orc's grip, he sinks his fangs into the Orc’s exposed throat, right above the collarbone where the hide is thinnest.

  The Orc's eyes go wide. His grip loosens instinctively, hands moving to his throat. The Stalker drops free, blood coating his muzzle, and in one fluid motion he sweeps the Orc's injured leg.

  The massive warrior crashes down. Hard.

  The Stalker is on him instantly, blades finding the throat, the stomach, any vulnerable point. The Orc tries to defend, his powerful hands closing around the Stalker's neck, but the damage is already done. Too much blood. Too many critical wounds.

  The Orc's movements slow and weaken, until they ultimately stop.

  The Stalker rises, dripping blood most not his. He meets the Orc leader's eyes and holds the gaze. The message is clear. This is what waits for the rest of you if you challenge us.

  The Orc leader stares at his fallen warrior for a long moment. His expression is unreadable, but I catch something in his eyes. Respect? Regret? Or both?

  Finally, he nods and motions to all the other raging orcs to follow.

  His warriors collect their dead companion, surprisingly gentle in their handling of the body, and withdraw. No arguments, no protests as they accept the outcome of the duel.

  As they disappear back into the ruins, Hynnal approaches the Stalker, who's silently examining his injuries. Broken ribs, the gash on his face and various smaller cuts. He'll survive, but he's in no great shape to fight again soon.

  "Fought well," Hynnal says, which from him might as well be poetry.

  The Stalker just nods, then his eyes find me. For a moment, our gazes lock, and I can swear I see a warning in his expression.

  Then he turns away, accepting a water skin from another warrior.

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

  "That could have been much worse," Kor'ik murmurs beside me.

  "It was already bad enough," I reply, staring at the dark stain on the amphitheater floor where the Orc fell.

  "Such is the way of things," Kor'ik says quietly. "Having “Blood Right” prevents greater bloodshed, but it's still blood."

  He's right, of course. The alternative would have been a full battle with who knows how many more killed. This brutal efficiency is probably the kindest option available in this harsh world.

  Hynnal starts reorganizing the group again, now with the Stalker relegated to the back among us slaves."

  As we approach the dark archway with its writhing glyphs, I feel the white shard pulse warmly against my chest. It's responding to the magic here, resonating with whatever power flows through these ancient stones.

  I touch it one more time, drawing what comfort I can from its steady warmth.

  Ready or not, we're going in again.

  The archway looms before us, its glyphs seeming to shift and spiral in the morning light. Beyond it only darkness and danger.

  Hynnal gestures, and we step through together, leaving the blood-stained amphitheater behind.

  Whatever comes next, at least we're still alive to face it.