Chapter 13: The Prisoners' Gaze
The inside of the hut was dim, the air thick with the scent of smoke, dried herbs, and now, the coppery tang of blood. The two Graxian prisoners had been deposited in a corner, their limbs bound with tough, fibrous vines. One, a younger male with a gash across his brow, glared at the Blue-Skins with undiluted hatred, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. The other, older, with a network of scars crisscrossing his arms, was quieter. His dark eyes were not fixed on his captors, but on Alistair, tracking his every move with a calculating, unnerving intensity.
Thora stood guard over them, her spear never wavering. The rest of the tribe gave the prisoners a wide berth, their earlier relief now mixed with a palpable unease. These were not abstract threats from the jungle; they were intelligent, hostile beings, brought into the heart of their sanctuary.
Alistair approached. The younger Graxian snarled, baring filed teeth. The older one remained silent.
"Can you understand me?" Alistair asked, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space.
There was no response, only the continued glare. He hadn't really expected one. He focused, pushing a trickle of power into his Admin sight, attempting a deeper scan.
[SCAN: GRAXIAN MALE. STATUS: INJURED, HOSTILE.]
LANGUAGE MODULE DETECTED: LOW GRAXIC.
INITIATING BASIC TRANSLATION PROTOCOL... ONLINE. LIMITED VOCABULARY.
A new, flickering icon appeared in his vision—a cracked, stone-like glyph. It was primitive, but it was a connection.
He pointed at himself. "Alistair." The word felt clumsy in his mouth.
The older Graxian's eyes narrowed. He grunted, a low, rumbling sound. A rough, translated word appeared in Alistair's mind. *"Earth-Shaker."*
It wasn't his name. It was a title. A fearful one.
Alistair nodded slowly, accepting it. He then pointed at the older Graxian, a question in his eyes.
The Graxian was silent for a long moment, his gaze boring into Alistair. Then, he spoke a single, guttural word. The translation surfaced: *"Borak."*
Progress. A name. It was a start.
Alistair pointed to the younger, snarling Graxian. Borak spat another word. *"Krog."* The translation carried a sense of "young, impulsive one."
"Why are you here?" Alistair asked, forming the words carefully, the system translating them into the simple, conceptual framework of Low Graxic.
Borak's lips peeled back in something that wasn't a smile. He gestured vaguely with his bound hands, a sweeping motion that took in the hut, the walls, the very land. The translated concepts came through, simple and stark. *"Land. Good. Water. Close. Take."*
It was as the scan had said. Territorial expansion. They saw a desirable location and came to claim it. It was that simple, that brutal.
Alistair pointed a finger downward, tapping it on the earth floor. "This is my land." The system conveyed the concept of ownership, of dominion.
Borak's calculating eyes didn't flicker. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. He understood power. He had seen it. He then gestured to his own chest, then to Krog, and finally made a sweeping motion toward the jungle. The translated meaning was clear. *"Clan. Many. Strong. Will return."*
It wasn't a plea. It was a statement of fact. A promise.
The weight on Alistair's shoulders seemed to double. This wasn't over. He had not just defended his home; he had started a war. The Stonetusk Clan knew this place existed now. They knew it was valuable. And they knew it was defended by a power they did not understand. They would be back, not with a disorganized war-party, but with a real force.
He looked from Borak's grim certainty to Krog's raw hatred, and then to Thora's watchful, worried face. The sanctuary felt fragile suddenly, its peace a temporary illusion.
He had the power to end the threat in the corner, right now. It would be the safe, tactical choice.
But he turned and walked away, leaving them bound under guard. He had already buried three today. He would not add two more prisoners to that count out of fear. Not yet.
Stepping back outside into the sunlight, the Edict of Sanctuary felt like a lie. He had brought the violence inside the walls. He had looked into the eyes of his enemy and seen a reflection of his own ruthless calculus.
The watchtower now looked less like a symbol of security and more like a necessity. The peace was broken. The true test of his stewardship was not in building a home, but in defending it from those who wanted to take it. And the first battle was over. The long, cold war had just begun.