Just then, a deeper, more authoritative voice came from the depths of the tribe, carrying a restrained calm.
"Enough, Kakus."
The crowd instinctively parted, forming a path. A remarkably robust male Centaur stepped forward.
His coat was a deep chestnut, like aged oak; his muscles were thick and well-defined, and his mane was dark and lustrous. A circlet set with dark silver star-stones rested on his forehead.
His eyes were sharp and steady, but at this moment, they held a weariness and a trace of helpless resignation. This was the tribe's current leader—Trom.
He first cast a stern glance at the three bound Centaurs, and under that gaze, they immediately lowered their heads in shame.
Then his eyes turned to Sagres, filled with complex emotion. He knew all too well the terrifying power and ruthless precision of this deceptively calm wizard.
The unpleasant "rescue" and "reward" from their last encounter had already left a deep shadow in the hearts of many in the tribe.
The stars? Trom smiled bitterly to himself. The stars might offer guidance—but that didn't mean they could always interpret their true will.
He also understood how impulsive and arrogant some of his tribesmen were, believing that with their strength and skill in astrology, all other creatures existed merely as prey beneath their spears.
But if they were truly that mighty, why had they been confined to the depths of the forest for so long, reduced to a single surviving bloodline?
He was powerless to change it. The near-extermination led by wizards three centuries ago had failed to purge the arrogance from their bones—how could he possibly do it now?
Trom's gaze finally fell on the parchment list in Nightingale's hand.
"Respected Humans," he said in a deep, steady voice—without Kakus's anger, only a heavy tone of concession.
"Tonight's incident was our fault. My tribesmen were the aggressors."
Elder Kakus shot a sharp look at the leader, as if he wanted to object, but Trom's stern gaze silenced him. A heavy silence fell over the tribe, broken only by the crackling of the burning torches.
"Even the stars have their obscure moments."
Trom's voice held a trace of bitterness, as if offering a dignified excuse for the tribe's submission.
"They failed to grasp the true meaning, and my tribesmen acted on their own—committing a grave error."
He paused, as if making a difficult decision. "Your requested… compensation. We accept."
He looked up, meeting Sagres's unfathomable eyes, and said, clearly and deliberately:
"Please choose freely from the items in the tribal treasury. As long as we have it—as long as it pleases you."
He lowered his proud head slightly—not in anger, not in protest, but in calm acknowledgment of defeat.
Sagres looked at him without expression, showing neither the satisfaction of victory nor the slightest hint of pity.
After a moment, he spoke slowly, his voice still even: "A very wise choice." He turned to Nightingale. "Vellis, go and select what you need."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "As for the Acromantula venom… we'll gather fresh ones later."
Nightingale nodded, holstered her wand, and walked toward the inner area of the Centaur settlement. Kestrel followed, full of curiosity.
Sagres turned his gaze back to Trom, his deep eyes seeming to pierce through the Centaur's powerful frame and look directly into his soul.
Trom straightened his back, enduring the silent scrutiny. The weariness in his eyes nearly spilled over, but it was forcefully restrained by the weight of leadership.
"Trom," Sagres said, breaking the silence. His voice carried a touch less detachment than usual.
"You're a smart man. Smarter than most proud Centaurs confined to the forest. You understand how to face reality—and how to weigh the pros and cons."
Trom's gaze flickered slightly, neither confirming nor denying the statement.
But Sagres's words cut cleanly, like a cold blade, precisely exposing the tribe's predicament.
"Clinging to isolation, relying on hunting and vague starlight for guidance—it's not a long-term strategy."
He continued, his eyes sweeping over the crude shelters and the cautious yet confused expressions on the faces of the surrounding Centaurs.
"The forest's resources are not endless. And the eyes of the outside world have never truly turned away from this land."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying—perhaps it's time you considered forging a new path. A path that opens communication with the outside world."
Trom's brows furrowed, a hint of instinctive resistance and subtle doubt surfacing. Communication? With those greedy, cunning wizards?
Sagres seemed to read his thoughts and said calmly, without haste, "We can begin with something simple. Like… the exchange of goods."
He gestured toward the direction Nightingale had gone.
"This ancient forest you call home contains many rare treasures that are scarce in the outside world—rare herbs, minerals, materials from certain magical creatures… just like the ones stored in your treasury.
And the outside world holds what you lack: better tools, salt and iron you cannot easily produce, fabrics to ward off the cold… even knowledge."
Trom's breath seemed to catch.
The picture Sagres painted overlapped, subtly but unmistakably, with a buried thought he'd long avoided.
The tribe was indeed regressing. Their tools were getting cruder. Some techniques had been lost. Winters were becoming harder to survive...
But he had never dared to give shape to that idea—let alone act on it.
"A controlled, small-scale trading post," Sagres suggested, his tone bordering on tempting.
"Managed by you—or someone you trust."
His gaze flicked toward the three still-bound Centaurs, his meaning unmistakable.
"Don't worry. It's simply an exchange of equal value. And you must understand... I see your 'value' more clearly than most humans ever will."
Trom's heart pounded heavily in his chest.
The proposal was like poison—and also like a cure.
He looked into Sagres's eyes, dark as still water, searching for the outline of a trap…
but saw only a calm that could not be read.
To wither away in isolation, or to grasp this thorny vine that might lead to new life?
He remained silent, time stretching on as the torches crackled in the stillness.
At last, he looked up, the weariness in his eyes replaced by something far more complex.
"Sir," he said, carefully avoiding the wizard's seemingly all-seeing gaze. His eyes instead fell on the fire, as though drawing strength from its glow.
"Contact with the outside world… especially with wizards… will cause a great uproar within the tribe."
He took a deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling, muscles tightening, then slowly relaxing.
"The risk… I see it. It's large enough to swallow us whole. But the other side you spoke of…"
He forced the words out.
"The hardship of survival, the loss of skills, the torment of winter… these shadows have loomed over us for too long. The light of the stars cannot reach every corner—nor can it fill the bellies of our people."
Elder Kakus let out a low, growling protest, but Trom silenced him with a raised hand.
The leader's eyes swept across the faces around him—some stunned, some confused, others quietly seething—before finally settling on Sagres's composed, unreadable expression.
"For the sake of the tribe's survival, I'm willing to take this first step. As you said—small-scale. We begin with the exchange of goods."
He swallowed, the decision visibly difficult.
"But the other party can only be you. At least in the beginning... this must remain a secret, known only to the two of us."
Sagres listened quietly, his expression unchanged. Only after Trom finished speaking did he give a slight nod.
"The location—I'll choose one that's 'safe' for both sides. As for the personnel..."
His gaze swept over the group of Centaurs standing behind Trom, their expressions mixed and uncertain. His brows furrowed slightly.
"I don't like arrogant fools. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Don't worry," Trom replied. "I'll handle this personally."
The two quickly discussed a few key details. Gradually, the tension in Trom's shoulders began to ease.
~~~~~~~
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