The journey north was inevitable, but that didn’t mean Reivan had to be happy about it.


    Sitting inside the carriage with Sylpkx, he exhaled dramatically, arms crossed. "So, just to be clear—again—we’re doing this because the alternative is what? Getting ambushed every single day until they drag you back anyway?"


    Sylpkx, staring out the window, didn’t answer immediately. That was already suspicious.


    "Oh, come on," Reivan pressed. "I’ve seen you turn a man’s ribs into a decorative arrangement just for insulting your boots. And now you’re letting these guys dictate your schedule?"


    Sylpkx finally sighed. "It’s different. They aren’t just some random noble idiots. They’re my people. If I don’t go willingly, they’ll keep sending warriors. And the next time, they might not care about casualties."


    Reivan groaned. "Right. So because they refuse to mind their own business, we have to be responsible? I hate this already."


    "Welcome to my world," Sylpkx muttered. "Besides, Khaedros isn’t wrong. If the tribe is preparing for war, they need an answer. Either I come back as part of them… or I don’t come back at all."


    That didn’t sit right with him.


    "So what, you’re just accepting this as fate? Since when do you do what other people want?"


    Sylpkx turned to face him, arms crossed. "What’s the alternative, Reivan? Keep running? Pretend I don’t exist? If I don’t handle this now, I’ll never be free of it. I need to end this."


    Reivan studied her. She wasn’t scared. If anything, she looked… resigned.


    "Alright," he said, leaning back. "But just so we’re clear—I’m not letting them pull some ‘trial by execution’ nonsense. You know how these warrior types love their dramatic, archaic traditions."


    Sylpkx snorted. "Oh, trust me. I know."


    The carriage hit a bump, and Reivan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I really hope they have decent food up there. If I have to sit through political nonsense and eat terrible rations, I’m going to be unbearable."


    "You already are."


    "Rude."


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    She smirked slightly. "But seriously. Thanks. For coming with me."


    Reivan smirked right back. "Hey. You’d be lost without me."


    The moment Reivan and Sylpkx stepped onto the Ironfang Tribe’s land, the air itself felt different. It wasn’t just the bitter, northern cold—it was the weight of expectation. The kind that came from people who had already decided your fate before you even opened your mouth.


    Reivan hated those kinds of people.


    He pulled his cloak tighter as he followed the warriors leading them. The Ironfangs weren’t subtle about their power. They wore thick pelts, walked with the confidence of men who had survived things most wouldn’t, and carried weapons that had clearly seen battle. The entire tribe was built around the idea that only the strong deserved to exist.


    He could already tell they weren’t going to like him.


    They arrived at what could only be described as a very large, very ominous gathering hall, built from ancient wood and reinforced with metal and carved stone. Inside, the Elders of the Ironfang Tribe were waiting. Old warriors, shamans, and political figures who had likely shaped the tribe for decades.


    Khaedros stood in the center, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp. He was in his element now.


    Reivan could tell Sylpkx wasn’t nervous, but she wasn’t smirking, either. That meant something.


    Khaedros spoke first. "You are back, Exile."


    Sylpkx clicked her tongue. "Not by choice."


    The largest of the elders, a man who looked like he could bench press a horse, leaned forward. "Then you understand why this must happen."


    Reivan, who had been quiet up until now, raised a hand like he was in a classroom. "I do not understand. And since I apparently wasn’t invited to this conversation beforehand, someone please explain why we’re acting like a dramatic stage play."


    One of the smaller elders narrowed his eyes at him. "Who is this human?"


    "Ah, so glad you asked." Reivan clapped his hands together. "I’m Reivan. Merchant, strategist, and, at the moment, the only person who thinks throwing Sylpkx into a death match is a bad idea."


    "She was exiled," another elder said gruffly. "Her mother was banished for defying the Rite of the Blooded."


    Reivan looked at Sylpkx. "...The what now?"


    Sylpkx sighed. "The Rite of the Blooded is a tradition. Every heir must complete a trial to prove they deserve to lead the tribe. My mother refused."


    Reivan blinked. "And instead of, I don’t know, changing your traditions, you all just—"


    "She was given a choice," Khaedros interrupted. "She chose exile. And now, her daughter must either complete the trial... or be cast aside like she was."


    Reivan took a deep breath. "Right. So just to be clear, if Sylpkx loses, she dies?"


    A few elders nodded, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.


    Reivan turned to Sylpkx. "You know, I joke a lot, but your people really need a new hobby."


    Sylpkx smirked despite herself. "Yeah, well. They’re consistent."


    Reivan exhaled. "Alright. Fine. Let’s say we do this stupid trial. What exactly is the challenge? Are we fighting to the death? Wrestling bears? Solving math problems? Please tell me it’s the math one."


    The largest elder scowled. "Three trials. A test of strength, a test of cunning, and a test of spirit."


    "Okay, okay. That’s... actually more reasonable than I expected. Still stupid, but at least you included a brain activity."


    Sylpkx cracked her knuckles. "Let’s get this over with."