"Why must we even choose a Vael?" Avenor asked, his eyes on the Velmoryns gathering for the contest, eager for their chance to find a mate. "When the Yellow Tribe joins us, won't we be forced to choose another anyway?"

"No, we shall not." Mirion responded without glancing his way. "The Priestess has decreed that the new tribe shall be guided by a council of six - one seat granted to each tribe. She herself shall stand as the sixth." His tone was flatt, his attention fixed on the grounds where the matches would begin. He already knew the outcome. With Rodon as the only Gold Rank competing, there was no chance anyone else could win. Still, he enjoyed watching fights, especially the ones that wouldn't end in death.

"So we are practically choosing a council member…" Avenor said, rubbing his chin as if weighing the thought.

Mirion shook his head. "Not necessarily. Even if one is chosen as Vael, that doesn't guarantee a place on the council. The Vael's task is different. They lead in battle, and we'll need one when we strike those monsters' nest." His gaze shifted, catching Lucas trying to slip past unnoticed. He raised a hand. "Lucas, come."

The young Velmoryn rolled his crimson eyes instinctively, though he didn't dare refuse Mirion. He respected him far too much for that.

"May High Father bless you," Lucas greeted, tracing my symbol across his chest. Avenor and Mirion repeated the gesture, their faces growing serious as they did.

Sometimes I found these rituals amusing. At other times, like now, they only grated on me. Still, I was growing numb to such trifles, no longer letting them bother me as they once did.

"Lucas, who do you think will win?" Mirion asked, grinning as he struck the youth on the back.

"Rodon," Lucas replied at once. His shoulders tightened as he flexed against the blow, a hint of pain crossing his face.

"Haha, I thought as much," Mirion laughed, striking him again, harder this time, and sending him stumbling forward. Lucas said nothing, enduring it.

"Lucas, why don't you compete? Is there no one you'd ask to dance?" Mirion pressed, his grin widening.

For a moment, Lucas's serious expression wavered. His thoughts drifted somewhere he refused to follow, and his answer came out quick and sharp, almost instinctive.

"No."

Avenor gave him a sidelong look. "This one always talks my ear off," he muttered.

"Haha!" Mirion burst into laughter, clapping on Luca's back again. His face was alight with joy, his chest tight with anticipation for the contest about to begin. Yet behind the laughter, his thoughts were occupied with how the choosing of the Vael would end.

Unlike him, I considered the whole affair little more than a formality. Even bigger one than Rodon competing against the silver and bronze ranks. Mirion was the clearest choice. He was one of the tribe's strongest warriors, the natural leader of any squad, and his simple, honest, straightforward nature had earned him goodwill with nearly everyone.

It made me wonder how Teryo had ever been Vael when I took over the tribe. The only explanation I could come up with was Mirion's reluctance. Before Tekla received my blessing, his entire life had revolved around her. His wife's disappearance, the previous priestess, had driven him into becoming an overprotective father. His lack of dark magic affinity only deepened that role as his ability to feel things was completely normal. So, I believed that a doting father had little interest in becoming Vael, for the title would have pulled him away from the daughter he guarded so closely.

But now, Tekla needed no protection. She was busier than anyone in the tribe, consumed by her own duties. That left Mirion free, and I doubted he would turn away from the chance to stand as Vael - especially when, in practice, he would lead the monster extermination squad regardless.

"Mirion," Avenor said with a grin as he watched Lucas hurry off, "I'll leave too. I need to prepare my equipment for the Lord's quest. I've no interest in love contests or in choosing a Vael. Besides, I doubt I even have the right to vote."

"You're wrong." Mirion's smile faded. He shook his head firmly. "You're part of our tribe. That means you must vote. It is mandatory, Avenor."

Avenor sighed, then nodded his head. He had already learned that whenever a Velmoryn declared something to be mandatory, there was no avoiding it, no matter how much he resisted.

So he stayed.

As the competition began, the tribe slowly gathered. Not all were eager to watch every bout, especially since most of the participants were young and none could offer real challenge to Rodon. Few adult males remained unwed, and those who were widowed had no right to remarry.

I disliked the permanence of such a custom. Vivien, for instance, gifted with rare nature magic, would never bear more children than the one she carried now. Her line, which should have been cultivated, would be limited far more than I desired.

Reason urged me to abolish the tradition. Yet another part of me, shaped perhaps by the believers themselves, respected their fierce loyalty, the strength to remain bound for life.

In the end, I decided to learn more of their culture before making my decision. Only then would I judge whether this was a custom worth preserving. I was the God of the Velmoryn, after all. To lead them, I had to first embrace their way of life; then, carefully, introduce the changes that would shape them into something greater.

"This is easier than I expected. I reached the final round without even breaking a sweat," Rodon boomed smugly, leaning one arm across Mirion's shoulder. "While I'm glad to be winning so easily, I do feel regret for our young generation…"

"Didn't you only gain that strength after High Father blessed you?" Avenor interjected Rodon's bragging, raising a brow. His voice was louder than necessary, drawing glances from those nearby.

Rodon stiffened. He didn't care about most of the eyes fixed on him, but one pair of eyes was an exception. Nia's gaze cut straight into his chest, and he flushed immediately.

"Why?!" he hissed through clenched teeth, fury barely contained.

"Think harder." Avenor grinned, enjoying the moment, exacting petty vengeance for the trouble Rodon had caused him earlier with Ninali.

"You wait!" Rodon snapped, snatching a wooden shield and practice sword from the pile before storming toward the makeshift arena, a flattened stretch of dirt ringed by walls of packed snow.

"You realize he won't let this go, don't you?" Mirion laughed, clapping Avenor on the back with enough force to send him stumbling forward.

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"You need to stop striking our backs!" Avenor barked, more vexed by Mirion's accuracy than the pain itself, as he realized that his joke would probably be met with vicious counterattack. "You're far too strong for that!"

Mirion paused, adopting a thoughtful look. Then he struck him even harder.

"You can handle this much power."

Avenor glared at him, jaw tight, but said nothing further as Aria raised her voice, declaring that the final round would begin after the challengers exchanged greetings.

And so, the decisive bout began.

Rodon's opponent hardly looked like a warrior. He was short, likely the smallest Velmoryn in the tribe, with silvery cropped hair, crimson eyes, and a frame that seemed wiry rather than lean. A dark leather tunic fastened with crimson laces stuck tightly to his shoulders, paired with plain trousers that offered little protection from the biting winter. He shivered, whether from cold or anticipation, though the spark in his eyes betrayed his excitement.

"Why isn't he holding a shield?" Avenor muttered, confused as he saw the young Velmoryn step forward with only a pair of short swords, barely longer than daggers.

"What's the point of carrying one if you can't stop a blow with it?" Mirion replied, tilting his head as if the question itself was baffling.

Before Avenor could respond, the fight started and the youth vanished from sight.

Rodon didn't panic. He raised his shield close, covering all but the narrow slit of his vision, and turned sharply, just in time to catch a wooden blade striking against the rim with a sharp crack. The sound rang true, wood on wood, echoing like splintered timber.

But the attacker was already gone. Rodon twisted again, barely catching another strike from behind.

The pattern repeated - strikes flashing from every blind angle, the young Velmoryn darting in and out, his movements too fast for untrainted eye to follow. Rodon's shield absorbed each blow with minimal effort, but the pressure of constant movement was undeniable.

"This one's impressive," Avenor said quietly, unwilling to look away. "But why isn't Rodon using his skill? He could reflect those strikes back with ease."

"Because it would dishonor him," Mirion explained, eyes gleaming with pride as he watched. "Rodon would never unleash a gift of High Father in a friendly match. To use skill against an opponent relying only on raw talent would shame him."

"Wait." Avenor leaned forward, his stare sharpening on the duel. "Are you saying this boy isn't using any skill at all? That he's simply this fast?"

"Precisely." Mirion chuckled, a deep pride in his tone. "But speed alone will only take him so far."

Rodon blocked yet another strike, but this time he noticed the blow lacked its previous force. He smirked and turned to face the next swing, adjusting his stance.

Instead of bracing low to absorb the impact, he shifted his weight forward, driving his shield outward to meet the oncoming dagger.

The youth had committed too much into the strike. His blade struck flat against the solid wall of wood, jarring his arm before his shoulder had fully extended. With his momentum stopped dead, his footing faltered and his stance lost all support. He stumbled, and in that instant Rodon seized the chance he had been waiting for.

Rodon shoved with the shield, knocking the youth further off balance, then followed with his sword. He thrust forward in a short, driving motion, closing the distance before his opponent could recover.

The younger Velmoryn tried to parry with the dagger in his off-hand, but the attempt lacked weight. His arm gave under the pressure, unable to divert the thrust. The blunt wooden tip slammed into his abdomen, just below the ribcage.

Air exploded from the youth's lungs in a harsh wheeze. His body folded around the strike, his diaphragm spasming violently as he collapsed to the ground. He clutched at his stomach, chest heaving, mouth opening soundlessly as he fought to draw breath.

Rodon did not press the attack, watching the young Velmoryn for a moment.

The match was already his.

…

"Will you… accept me?" Rodon asked clumsily, his cropped hair damp with nervous sweat. In his hand he held the crimson leaf, the token the Priestess had given him as the victor of the contest.

But winning the ritual did not mean Nia would take him.

She stood motionless before him, wrapped in thick fur, her expression carved in stone.

"N-Nia?" Rodon's voice cracked as silence dragged on, the weight of countless eyes pressing down on them both. "Please… answer."

"What took you so long?" Nia replied flatly. She plucked the leaf from his hand, tucked it into her coat, and turned to leave. But no one missed the faint flush on her cheeks, nor the quickened tone in her voice that betrayed her joy.

Rodon's face split into a grin. He puffed his chest, lips stretching almost to his eyes, and turned around, glaring as if he had just claimed the world itself.

"Now, now! You've all seen my belo… erm… Nia accept the crimson leaf!" he roared, beaming with pride. "Now go! Seek your dancing partners!" Without waiting, he bolted after Nia, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry.

"What?" Avenor blinked and looked to Aria, who sat calmly eating a strip of roasted meat, ignoring the spectacle. "I thought only the winner of the ritual could ask a woman to dance?"

Aria didn't even look up.

"What gave you that idea? Why would you need to win some silly contest just to ask someone to dance?" She tore into the meat with visible delight, savoring the juices before continuing. "Only the winner gets the stup… prize, binding a woman to him for life if she accepts. The others can still ask whoever they wish. But for them, a dance is simply that, not a betrothal."

"Now it makes sense." Avenor scratched his chin, though his eyes had already strayed to the new platter being carried past. Steam curled from the fresh cuts of mammoth-like monsters' meat, the scent rich and heavy, the smoke twisting upward to fight against the frozen air. His mouth watered. "I want one too…"

Across the table, Qalda and Yllianor, who had already endured their first night out, huddled close to the bonfire, devouring the steaming meat with greedy bites.

"Avenor, if you don't want to be asked to dance, you'd better leave quickly," Aria said suddenly, wiping her hands on a greasy towel.

"But…" Avenor nearly shouted, his mouth still half full. "Aren't I supposed to be the one inviting…"

"Women can take the initiative too." Aria cut him off, gesturing casually toward another table. Ninali was watching them with a strange look in her eyes. Aria's voice stayed flat, though a trace of amusement hid beneath. "Normally, I'd invite you myself just to tease her, but today I'll let you two have your fun."

She rose, slipping past a few Velmoryns who tried to intercept her, ignoring them all as though they were invisible.

Avenor hurried to swallow, cleaning his hands as fast as he could. He clearly had no interest in this tradition… but interest or not, it would involve him.

"Avenor," a voice called.

He looked up to see Rodon, grinning like a happy child, standing between Ninali and Nia.

Avenor's face darkened. He sighed, already resigning himself, and walked toward them.

…

The drums began in perfect sync, echoing through the snowlit square. Velmoryns stepped into the ring, moving slowly and flowing as one. It was no wild dance, but still a display of something deep - men strong and grounded, women graceful and light as drifting snow, circling each other.

Rodon led Nia first, his chest puffed, feet striking hard against the frozen earth. Nia's steps were softer, her fur-lined cloak flaring as she turned. She kept her head high, her eyes fixed ahead, yet the faintest curve at her lips betrayed her joy. Rodon tried to match her grace, but his movements were far too clumsy; his heavy stomps answered by her light, cutting sways.

Around them, others joined, the circle growing, each pair mirroring the balance of strength and grace. It was a dance of distance as much as closeness - men advancing, women retreating, then circling back, a rhythm of challenge and reply.

Avenor stood rigid at the edge, arms crossed, until Ninali stepped before him. Her eyes reflected the bonfire, hand outstretched. For a moment, he hesitated. Then, with a resigned breath, he took her hand.

And together, they stepped into the dance.

I pitied him in that moment… but envied even more. Through him I could once glimpse the world as mortals lived it, feel their bonds and their choices.

But no more.

The feeling passed quickly as I refocused on my immediate goals, unwilling to be overwhelmed by bitterness the envy brought. The winter's grip would soon begin to break, and my full attention had to return to what lay ahead. The extermination squad had to be formed, and the means to destroy the thing buried in that nest secured.

The Velmoryns could savor these days of firelight and laughter, but after that, every hour would belong to preparation for the greatest hunt they had ever faced.

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