"General Max, sound the horn," Craige ordered firmly. "Let them know I'm here."
A flicker of urgency crossed his face, he had just remembered something important,
something he needed to do and finished everything here.
General Max gave a slight bow, understanding the urgency in Craige's tone. Without a word, he raised his gloved hand and gestured toward a nearby soldier standing at the ridge.
The soldier brought the long, curved war horn to his lips. For a moment, all was still.
Then—
FWOOOOOOHHHHHHH!
The deep, resonant blast of the horn tore through the cold southern air. The ground
seemed to hum with its vibration. The call rolled over the hills and echoed into the distant forest, sending birds scattering into the pale sky. Campfires flickered. Horses stamped nervously.
It was not just a signal, it was a declaration: the Commander is here!
A heavy silence echoed through the wind.
After a minute, Craige and the General stood still, their eyes locked on the distant horizon, toward the wild lands where the barbarians dwelled.
FWOOOOOOHHHHHHH!
A deep horn blast thundered from the other side.
"They're approaching!" a soldier shouted, peering through the dual-lens scope with tense urgency.
Craige grabbed the second scope and scanned the distance.
Five riders emerged, galloping forward under a raised white flag.
"Raise our white flag," Craige ordered sharply. "It looks like they seek a peace talk."
Without hesitation, he descended from the watchtower, his expression unreadable.
"I'll meet them myself," he said with quiet resolve.
Rolen and Keith exchanged glances, then followed as the duke mounted his horse.
"Get the translator!" Keith barked at a nearby soldier while the rest prepared to open
the gate, the tension thick in the air.
The creaking of iron gears echoed as the massive gate slowly parted, revealing the
frosted wilderness beyond. Cold air rushed in, biting at their faces, but Craige didn't flinch. He urged his horse forward, his cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow of authority.
Keith and Rolen flanked him closely, their hands never far from their weapons.
Just ahead, the five barbarians approached, their mounts fierce and broad-shouldered,
unlike the sleeker warhorses of the kingdom. They wore thick furs, faces half-covered by bone masks, but the white cloth waving from the lead rider's hand glimmered like a rare moment of hope.
The riders slowed to a halt a few meters from the border stones. The lead barbarian
dismounted, tall, scarred, with braids of raven-black hair laced with iron rings. He raised both hands to show peace.
Craige stopped, dismounted as well, and stepped forward with steady confidence. The two leaders stood face to face, the space between them heavy with years of
bloodshed.
The translator hurried forward, breathless, and bowed before taking position slightly behind Craige.
The barbarian leader grunted something in his harsh native tongue.
The translator quickly spoke, "He says his name is Mor'Vekar, King of the Northfang
Tribe.
"He is Duke Craige Evron Seravelle, the Duke of the North," the translator announced
firmly, his voice echoing slightly inside the cold tent.
They moved into a tent pitched at the midpoint between both borders, erected by the Duke's soldiers, neutral ground cloaked in tension.
Craige and the barbarian King, Mor'Vekar, sat opposite each other. Their companions stood silently at their sides, eyes sharp, hands never far from their weapons.
"What do you want to talk about?" Craige asked coldly, his eyes fixed on the King with
unwavering intensity.
"We seek peace… and alliance," Mor'Vekar said directly, his tone diplomatic, but his
gaze calculating.
Craige narrowed his eyes. "And under what condition?" He already sensed this wasn't a
generous offer, it was baited.
Mor'Vekar leaned slightly forward. "I heard you have an omega. We want him."
The words hadn't even finished leaving the King's lips when Craige rose violently to his
feet. In one swift motion, his sword was unsheathed and the blade pressed against Mor'Vekar's neck, sharp and threatening.
Craige's eyes blazed with fury. He didn't know how they got that information, but it
didn't matter, anyone who dared to demand Luren would pay with their life.
Yet Mor'Vekar didn't flinch. He remained seated, unnervingly calm, as if the cold
steel at his throat meant nothing.
"Whoever told you that," Craige growled through clenched teeth, "I'll make sure to cut
out his tongue myself. If that's what you came for, there will be no peace talks. Not today. Not ever."
Mor'Vekar slowly raised his hand, not in surrender, but in measured response. A test. His dark eyes met Craige's with curiosity.
"So… it's true, then," he said, his voice low, but steady. "You've fallen in love with an
omega."
There was no mockery in his tone, only quiet confirmation
Craige smirked, a flicker of mischief in his eyes.
"Are you here to talk about my love life?" he asked, voice laced with sarcasm.
Mor'Vekar let out a long, weary sigh, his expression grim.
"Velgarith and Lunathia have joined forces. They're scouring the lands for every Omega
they can find. Prince Karin… he's in your territory now. Lunathia is in turmoil, he was meant to be their offering. But he escaped… and sought refuge. I doubt Seravelle even understands how rare and special an Omega truly is."
Craige's smirk faded. He leaned back, resting his hand on the hilt of his sheathed
sword.
"If they see Omegas as so special, then why treat them like sex slaves?" he said coldly,
anger flickering beneath his calm tone.
"I would like to invite you to our home," King Mor'Vekar said calmly, his voice echoing
with a strange sincerity.
Craige flinched subtly. This could be a trap.
"I will leave my son and daughter behind as a sign of good faith," Mor'Vekar added, his
tone more insistent. "Please, come with us. There is someone I want you to meet."
Craige's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And how would I know they are truly your
children?"
Without a word, the masked figures surrounding the king reached up and removed their bone masks.
Their resemblance was undeniable, same sharp cheekbones, dark piercing eyes, and the strong, sun-worn features of warriors. The son, likely the crown prince, stood
tall and proud, close in age to Craige. The daughter was younger, with soft features and a watchful gaze.
But Craige's attention was drawn to the third figure.
He was… striking.
Slender and graceful, his beauty was almost delicate. His skin was pale beneath the
flickering candlelight, and his long silver-black hair fell freely over his shoulders. His body was lean, his posture poised, Yet there was an ethereal softness to him, his eyes large and luminous, lips gently curved even in stillness.
"This is my third son, Velzra," the king said, his voice low. "And yes… what you are
thinking is true. He is an omega, just like Prince Karin."
Velzra stepped forward silently. He lifted the hem of his dark, printed tunic,
revealing his toned abdomen. In the dim candlelight, a crimson crescent moon
tattoo shimmered faintly on his skin, glowing softly as if enchanted, an unmistakable mark of an omega.
Craige's heart pounded.
It was not just the tattoo.
It was the presence, the aura, familiar and
vulnerable all at once.
"If you come, you'll understand why Velgarith has been searching for the omegas," Mor'Vekar said in a grave tone, his eyes steady and filled with something
Craige couldn't quite decipher, part warning, part plea.
Craige turned to Keith. "Take his son and daughter. Keep them safe until I return," he
said firmly.
Keith hesitated, a flicker of worry crossing his face. "Are you really going to go?" he asked, his voice low with concern.
Craige gave a solemn nod. He leaned closer and whispered, "I need to know… so I can protect Luren."
Mor'Vekar look at his children. "Omar, Kara… you'll be fine," he said gently, placing a hand
on each of their shoulders. "Trust me. Seravelle's protection is with you now."
The two children nodded slowly, their trust in their father unwavering, though fear
lingered in their eyes.
Keith glanced one last time at Craige, then turned, leading Omar and Kara away. The
three of them rode back toward the border in silence, the cold wind biting at their cloaks and the weight of uncertainty hanging heavy in the air.