Clan Captain Darrus rapped a gauntleted fist against the thick, smoke-cured timber door. It was well-fitted, a mark of the prosperity the Chieftain had brought to these wind-scoured ridges of the Stone-Tooth Clan’s Fells, but still humble compared to the grand gates of the forgotten empires Liam Thorne had read about. A low, gravelly voice from within bid him enter. Darrus pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the Chieftain’s solar. He bowed, a practiced dip of his head and shoulders, though his gaze remained respectful yet direct. Chieftain Harkan, a man whose dark hair was streaked with the white of many long winters, sat hunched over a crude but sturdy table of polished riverstone. Hundreds of etched leather scrolls, clay tablets, and even a few brittle, ancient papyrus fragments (acquired at great cost, Darrus knew) were scattered across its surface, documenting harvests, disputes, and alliances. “Four outsiders have entered our holdings,” Harkan stated, not a question, his eyes still scanning a particular scroll. His voice was less a query, more a confirmation, the flat tone implying he already knew. “Is that worth my attention, Darrus? Is there anything… *unsettling* about them?” Darrus nodded, his posture stiff. “There is a Wilder among them, Chieftain.” Harkan’s brow furrowed, a network of lines deepening on his weathered face. Wilders. He knew their kind. Simple, brute-force men and women from beyond the settled lands, born of the Great Scar where only the strongest and most oblivious survived. They were a disruption to order, their untamed ways a constant irritant, their reliance on raw power a threat to the delicate balance of tribal law and custom. Most chieftains avoided them like the seasonal blight, lest their impulsive actions spark wider conflict. “I had judged them no great threat, initially,” Darrus admitted, swallowing hard. “If you, my Clan Captain, judged so, then it must have seemed minor. What, then, changed your mind?” Harkan’s voice was calm, but Darrus felt the subtle tightening of the air. “He’s strong enough to be a problem, Chieftain. From what’s confirmed, he felled a Bone-Wrought Sentinel in a single blow.” Harkan’s pupils dilated, a flicker of genuine shock in his deep-set eyes. A Bone-Wrought Sentinel. Those hulking, reanimated constructs of a forgotten age, impervious to common blades, usually requiring the combined efforts of a Blade-Hand and several Skirmishers to even challenge, let alone defeat. To take one down in a single blow… that was the stuff of legend, of Iron-Arm strength. Or more. “A single blow?” Harkan repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “Is there a possibility he is even… mightier?” The Chieftain managed a bitter smile. Such strength, and from a Wilder. Beings who understood only force, who saw strength as the sole arbiter of order. That made him not just strong, but dangerous. A problem waiting to unravel everything Harkan had painstakingly built. He rubbed his temples, a faint ache already starting. “But… there’s an oddity, Chieftain,” Darrus interjected, sensing Harkan’s growing unease. “Yes. If I may, a peculiar decorum. An unexpected courtesy. He displayed… etiquette.” “Etiquette?” Harkan scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “That doesn’t suit Wilders. They barely know how to spit without hitting their own feet.” “Indeed, Chieftain. I thought it best to mention it precisely because of that mismatch.” Darrus met his Chieftain’s gaze. He knew Harkan understood the significance. The Stone-Tooth Clan had once been one of the poorest, perched on the edge of the known world, its land unforgiving, its people struggling. It was Harkan who had, through sheer will and shrewd diplomacy, forged it into something resembling a viable settlement, drawing in skilled crafters and traders despite the harsh climate. He valued order above all else, for it was order that had carved their existence from the frozen rock. After a moment of silent contemplation, Harkan tapped his riverstone table. “Having such a powerful individual wandering within our lands is unsettling. It would be more reassuring to observe him with my own eyes.” “It could be perilous, Chieftain,” Darrus warned, his hand reflexively going to the hilt of his short-sword. Harkan merely smiled, a thin, confident curve of his lips. Only then did Darrus recall the silent presence beside the Chieftain’s chair. The Oath-Bound Warden, Kael, a warrior whose skill was whispered to be honed by an Iron-Blade Master from the distant, fabled southern reaches. Kael, always lurking just beyond the shadows, a sentinel of loyalty and lethal grace. Kael’s hand had already drifted to the pommel of his long-blade, his eyes narrowed, anticipating. “He may be powerful, Chieftain, but he is still a Wilder,” Kael’s voice was a low growl, laced with contempt. “They lack true cunning, mere beasts of brute force. Faced with my blade-craft, forged across generations of tested ways, he can only fall.” Harkan nodded, his confidence renewed by his Warden’s unwavering certainty. “Summon the Wilder. I will speak with him myself.” *** Liam Thorne gnawed on the roasted gristle-hound limb, pulling a satisfying amount of sinew from the bone. His companions—Faelan, the Shadow-Hand; Elara, the Whisper-Speaker; and Gareth, the Pledge-Sworn—watched him with various degrees of mild revulsion. It was less about the act, more about Liam’s complete lack of self-consciousness, the way he seemed to derive simple, unadulterated pleasure from the basic act of eating. *Honestly,* Liam thought, eyeing their strained faces over the gnawed bone, *some people have never had to ration a pack of glorified energy bars for a week while trapped in a blizzard. This is five-star dining by comparison.* “Quite delicious,” Liam announced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “A decent establishment. I rather like the quiet.” He gestured around the ‘Common House,’ which, even at this early evening hour, buzzed with the low din of conversation, clattering tankards, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Liam’s definition of ‘quiet,’ he knew, was subjective. The patrons, however, seemed to have taken his arrival as a cue to keep their voices down, a tense murmur replacing the earlier boisterousness. His general air of ‘I might look human, but I will absolutely ruin your day’ seemed to be remarkably effective. “Drink freely,” he waved a hand, indicating their half-empty tankards of sour mead. “It’s on me.” He was thoroughly enjoying himself, observing them, extracting data. He had questions, and alcohol often loosened tongues, even if the tongues in question were still visibly terrified. He turned to Gareth, the young warrior whose self-proclaimed title of ‘Pledge-Sworn’ intrigued Liam. “You mentioned you’re a Pledge-Sworn. Does that mean you believe in, say, the Sky-Gods, or the Earth-Spirits?” Gareth, a burly man with nervous eyes, shook his head. “No. I don’t follow the Sky-Gods or the old Earth-Spirits.” Liam paused, genuinely puzzled. “Then… what powers you? Don’t Pledge-Sworn wield, for lack of a better term, divine strength?” “The concept of divine power is… nuanced,” Elara, the Whisper-Speaker, interjected softly, her voice barely audible over the background murmur. “Those like myself, the Spirit-Seers, we channel the power of miracles and prophetic whispers through our devotion to our chosen patron. But the Pledge-Sworn, they draw their inner fire from their own unyielding conviction. They are those who wield strength by believing in themselves, in their oath.” “Ah, an interesting distinction,” Liam mused, a spark of intellectual curiosity brightening his eyes. *A self-actualized form of magic. Fascinating. So the power comes from the internal, not the external. Less a god, more a force of will. Useful to know.* “In that case, Gareth, what precisely is your ‘inner fire’? I haven’t quite seen it manifest during our recent… excursions into the ruins.” Gareth shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, I’m still in the training stage, outsider. My inner fire hasn’t awakened yet.” “Unfortunate,” Liam stated flatly, genuinely meaning it from an academic perspective. A force wielded through self-belief. *A potentially potent and portable source of power, if one knew how to tap it.* A pleasant thought, rife with theoretical applications, flashed through Liam’s mind. He then turned to Elara. “You mentioned your patron, the Hungry Maw. Is there a shrine or a gathering place for followers of the Hungry Maw in this settlement? I confess I’d be intrigued to offer a… prayer, perhaps.” He was, of course, interested in the cultural anthropology of it all. Not actual prayer. Elara’s expression immediately shuttered. “Oh, no, outsider. There likely isn’t. The Hungry Maw is not… generally welcomed here.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “A false and deceitful entity, they say. A patron rejected and shunned by most folk, for its… voracious appetites.” *Right. Cult following. Got it. Always a catch,* Liam thought, suppressing a sigh. “Perhaps a shrine for another deity, then? One more… widely accepted?” It was, Liam realized, a disrespectful question for a Whisper-Speaker devoted to a specific entity to answer. Elara avoided his gaze, her discomfort palpable. Liam, despite his customary cynicism, recognized the social faux pas. “My apologies,” he said, his tone dry but sincere. “Asking such questions of a devoted follower is rude, in any culture.” The uncomfortable atmosphere, already thick enough to cut with a dull bone knife, persisted. They continued to drink, mostly out of necessity, Liam surmised. It wasn’t a desire for pleasure, but a coping mechanism. It was difficult to remain sober in such a situation. As the mead slowly began to work its dubious magic, the confidence they thought wouldn’t come started to rise, albeit slowly. Faelan, the Shadow-Hand, became a bit bolder. “How… how strong are you, outsider?” Faelan blurted out, the words slightly slurred, but laced with genuine curiosity. The question snapped Gareth and Elara, who were half-lost in their own unease, back to attention. Liam’s strength was clearly beyond their comprehension. They were very, very curious. Liam, however, merely shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s a question for *me* to ask. I’m not familiar with the standards of strength in this world, this… Aerthos.” He watched their faces, seeing the dawning realization. This being in front of them wasn’t just a Wilder; he was something else entirely. He wasn’t well-versed in the knowledge of *their* world’s metrics, a fact they had forgotten amid his uncanny fluency in their common tongue. “Are there… standards for strength?” Liam pressed, genuinely curious about the local power-scaling system. Faelan swallowed, his eyes wide. “There are various criteria, but generally, it’s categorized into five classifications: Skirmisher, Blade-Hand, Iron-Arm, Earth-Shaker, and Sky-Splitter.” “And at what level are you three?” Liam asked, his voice neutral. Faelan grimaced. “We’re not even Skirmisher-rank, to be honest. But even being a Skirmisher doesn’t mean one is weak. It’s a title, a recognized measure of prowess. Even a Skirmisher is a formidable force in a small territory.” The fact that their strength could be quantified and given names meant it wasn’t something easily attainable. *Humans love their hierarchies, don't they? Even when it comes to who can hit harder.* Liam stroked his chin, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “What about that Bone-Wrought Sentinel we encountered?” “You’d need to be at least a Blade-Hand to stand a chance against one,” Faelan replied, a shudder running through him. “Probably an Iron-Arm to fell it as… decisively as you did.” “An Iron-Arm, then,” Liam murmured, still processing the information, noting how little that title resonated with the raw, brutal efficiency of his own recent actions. *So their 'Iron-Arm' is roughly equivalent to 'guy with a really good sledgehammer and a basic understanding of structural integrity' in my world. Good to know.* He then turned to the part that genuinely captured his imagination. “What about those called Earth-Shakers and Sky-Splitters? Are they truly as powerful as the legends claim?” Faelan replied promptly, his voice hushed with awe. “I haven’t seen them myself, but even if only one-tenth of the rumors are true, they’re beyond our comprehension. Splitting the very stone of the mountains, tearing the earth asunder, cleaving the sea itself, shattering peaks to dust. They are the Earth-Shakers and Sky-Splitters.” “I assume the great Iron-Blade Masters are at that level,” Gareth added, his own awe evident. “Sky-Splitters,” Liam repeated, a strange, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “Iron-Blade Masters.” A spark, not of bloodlust, but of intellectual excitement, ignited within him. *Finally, something genuinely intriguing to analyze. The physics of 'splitting the sky' must be fascinating.* Faelan, however, interpreted that quiet, almost joyful repetition in a vastly different light. *Could this Wilder be planning to challenge them?* The very thought sent a tremor of fear through the Shadow-Hand, echoing the unspoken anxieties of his companions. Liam continued to inquire, extracting more details about Aerthos’s inhabitants, its perils, and its forgotten history, and their strained drinking session lasted until the Common House began to clear out for the night. Liam rose from his stool, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Is this all the knowledge for tonight? Do you all have pressing engagements?” “Yes! I’m very busy!” Faelan chirped, perhaps a little too eagerly. Gareth and Elara nodded in frantic agreement. “Well, that’s a shame,” Liam said, genuinely feeling it. He was just getting to the good stuff. “Then, I bid you farewell here.” He gave a small, almost theatrical wave as he turned to leave. “Farewell, comrades! Until next time!” They tried to muster weak smiles and wave back, but their thoughts, Liam suspected, were more along the lines of, *May the Sky-Gods forbid we ever see him again!* Liam had, after all, shattered their understanding of the world, then casually discussed its potential destruction. *** “Phew. This is… surprisingly tolerable.” Liam stretched out on the straw pallet in his cramped, simple room at the Wayfarer’s Hearth. The proprietor, a nervous man with perpetually darting eyes, had practically pushed him into the room, then fled. Compared to the downy mattresses and memory foam of his old life, this was akin to sleeping in a stable. Yet, compared to the rock-shelters and snow-burrows he’d called home for the past weeks in the Scarred Lands, it was absolute heaven. He was, by Aerthos’s standards, in civilization. Now, what exactly was he to do? The question loomed. There were so many things he *could* do, so many things he *wanted* to do, that it was hard to organize his thoughts. One thing Liam had learned while surviving, raw and exposed, in the desolate reaches of the Great Scar was the absolute necessity of a clear, overriding objective. Every action, every decision, needed to serve a major goal. After some consideration, Liam settled on a simple, yet profound, decision. “I want to… go on adventures,” he murmured to the rough-hewn timber ceiling. He wanted to travel, to experience the myriad wonders and terrors of this world firsthand. He wanted to visit the Ruined Towers of the Lore-Weavers, to see if their ancient constructs held secrets he could salvage. He wanted to find the Deepwood Glades of the Whisper-Folk, to understand their rumored symbiosis with nature. He wanted to observe the Chieftain’s Stronghold, to analyze their primitive but effective defensive strategies. He wanted to explore places no one else had dared to venture, to test his limits against the untamed wilds. He wanted to meet the Iron-Blade Masters and, especially, the Sky-Splitters. Not necessarily to fight them, but to *understand* them. To deconstruct their legends, to analyze their capabilities through the lens of physics and engineering. He wanted, in short, to fully enjoy this utterly bewildering, incredibly dangerous, and endlessly fascinating fantasy world he’d been so unexpectedly dropped into. “Let’s start slowly, then,” he decided, rolling onto his side. “Enjoying what we can, at a reasonable pace.” There was plenty of time, he reasoned. It would be a waste, a truly regrettable oversight, to rush through this rare, utterly bizarre, new reality. Better to move leisurely, observe keenly, and adapt constantly. Liam Thorne fell asleep, a rare lightness in his usually cynical mind. He realized, just before unconsciousness claimed him, that he had fallen asleep beneath a sturdy, enclosed ceiling, not the vast, indifferent sky, and an almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. His first true dawn under a solid roof in Aerthos. It was, surprisingly, rather enjoyable. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, and began to slowly get up. His plan for the morning was simple: find a truly terrible breakfast and then, perhaps, a map. A knocking sound, heavy and insistent, echoed through the rough timber of his door. Liam paused, his hand already reaching for the crude knife he kept under his pillow. He assessed the rhythm, the weight of it, before slowly, cautiously, pushing the door open.

A Chieftain's Concern