The gathering hall was quieter than before, but not out of peace—no, this was the silence of tension, the kind that hung in the air before something snapped. The three trials were over. Sylpkx had won.


    And yet, instead of relief, Reivan felt like he had just stepped into a bigger problem.


    Khaedros was staring at Sylpkx, his golden eyes unreadable. The Elders, despite honoring their traditions, still looked dissatisfied. It was clear that while Sylpkx had proven herself, the result was not what they wanted.


    Reivan, as usual, was going to make things worse for them.


    “So, now that we’ve established that Sylpkx is indeed not a weakling and you’ve wasted everyone’s time, what exactly happens next?” he asked, leaning against one of the massive wooden pillars.


    One of the older Elders narrowed his eyes at him. “She is to take her place in the tribe.”


    Sylpkx scoffed. “Like hell I will.”


    Khaedros exhaled sharply. “You cannot keep running, Sylpkx. The tribe needs a leader of both beastkin and imperial blood.”


    Reivan nodded. “Right. Totally understandable. Very compelling argument. Quick question, though—did you ask her if she even wants that?”


    Silence.


    One of the younger warriors shifted uncomfortably.


    Khaedros clenched his jaw. “This is not a choice. It is duty.”


    Reivan smiled. The exact moment he was waiting for.


    “Ahhh, duty. That wonderful, vague word people love to throw around when they want someone else to sacrifice everything for them.” He clapped his hands together. “Love that. Huge fan.”


    Khaedros bristled. “You mock our traditions.”


    “I mock stupid traditions,” Reivan corrected. “You know, the ones that require people to suffer for no reason.”


    One of the Elders growled, but another, older and far sharper-looking, raised a hand. “Then tell us, outsider. What would you have us do? Abandon our ways? Become weak?”


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Reivan sighed dramatically. “You people have the same obsession with strength that nobles have with bloodlines. And you know what they all forget?”


    He let the silence stretch, until he was sure everyone was paying attention.


    “Strength is not about holding power. Strength is about knowing when to let go of it.”


    Khaedros flinched.


    Reivan took a step forward. “You keep talking about war. About preparing. You want Sylpkx to take charge, but what you really want is a figurehead you can control. Someone who can rally the tribe, make you stronger, and lead you into whatever conflict is coming.”


    The Elders stiffened.


    Sylpkx blinked at him, then smirked. “I really do love it when you piss people off.”


    Reivan kept going. “You think forcing her into a leadership role will magically solve your problems? No. If you force her, you’ve already lost. You don’t want a leader. You want a pawn who looks like one.”


    The large Elder growled, but the older one—the real power in this room—narrowed his gaze.


    “You speak well, outsider,” the Elder murmured. “Too well. Do you intend to take our traditions and reshape them?”


    Reivan’s smile turned sharper. “Not at all. I intend to exploit them.”


    Sylpkx actually laughed. “Oh, this is going to be good.”


    Reivan spread his arms. “I get it. You want a strong leader. You want a warrior who can lead you through war. But tell me this—when was the last time a warlord ruled and the tribe didn’t end up bleeding for it?”


    Silence.


    Reivan took another step. “Strength is useful. But intelligence? Cunning? Foresight? Those are rare. And you have the only person in this entire tribe who has all three.”


    Khaedros’ fists tightened. “And if she refuses?”


    Reivan’s grin widened. “Then you have nothing.”


    Sylpkx raised an eyebrow at Khaedros. “You sure you want a reluctant leader? Because let me tell you, I’d be awful at it.”


    Khaedros exhaled sharply. He turned to the Elders. “You see? This is why we cannot let her leave. She does not take this seriously.”


    Reivan clapped him on the shoulder. “Khaedros, buddy. You lost. Take it like a man.”


    Khaedros shoved his hand away. “This is not over.”


    Reivan smirked. “Oh, I hope not. I’d get bored.”


    The older Elder finally nodded. “Then it seems we are at an impasse. The traditions have been met. She has passed the trials. And she does not wish to stay.” His sharp gaze flicked to Sylpkx. “Then tell me, daughter of the exile. If not with us, then where?”


    Sylpkx paused.


    Then, she looked at Reivan.


    And for the first time, she actually looked certain.


    “Wherever I damn well please.”


    The Elders muttered, but the decision was made. The trials were done. They could not force her. They could not take back the victory.


    Reivan leaned toward her and whispered. “You totally stole my dramatic exit line.”


    She grinned. “I learn from the best.”


    As they walked away, Khaedros called out. “Then let it be known—when war comes, do not expect mercy.”


    Reivan did not turn around. “Buddy, I never do.”