The smoke from the shattered altar still lingered in the air, curling around the clearing like a ghost reluctant to leave. Liam's sword hung at his side, the metal now cool and ordinary again, but the weight of what he'd done hadn't left him. He could feel it in the silence of the tribe, in their bowed heads, in the way they avoided looking directly into his eyes. He didn't care for worship, but he did care about control—and if this was how he could keep them from slipping back into savagery, then so be it.
He turned to Von, his voice low but firm.
"Call that man," Liam said. "The one who spoke yesterday... the one who said they had no king."
Von gave a small nod, already knowing who Liam meant. He raised a hand and barked a few short phrases in their native tongue.
