The Chief's Burden

The sun beat down on the Palace of Donnerfels.

Oliver welcomed High Priestess Gritsia Stoneheart through the bronze doors and led her down the central hall, where the Heywick family had assembled. The air inside was stifling, thick with the smell of dust and old incense.

Chief Miroslav Heywick sat at the head of the long table. He was a broad man, his beard streaked with grey, his shoulders still thick with the muscle of a younger warrior. Around him sat the elders of the clan. Beside him stood Giulia, rigid in blue robes, and Sebastian, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Miroslav rose.

"Your Grace." His voice filled the hall. "It is an honor to receive you in our home."

The words were correct. The tone was not. Beneath the formality ran a current of resentment, raw and unmistakable.

Gritsia smiled. It was a small, patient expression.

"My visit is of little consequence," she said. "I am merely passing through to survey the route the guilds will take tomorrow, when they depart for Zenoa."

She adjusted the silver embroidery on her black sleeves.

"I assume your eastern gates will be unbarred? Purely for the sake of efficiency."

Miroslav's jaw tightened. He glanced at Oliver.

"Unbar the eastern routes," he ordered. "Clear the main road entirely."

He paused. His voice dropped to a mockery of deference.

"I would not want to cause any... bureaucratic delays for Her Eminence."

The words echoed. A thinly veiled eviction notice disguised as obedience.

Gritsia did not flinch.

Instead, her eyelids lowered halfway. She tilted her head back—just enough to look down the length of her nose at him. Her gaze traveled slowly from his tense jaw to his rough, calloused hands, treating his defiance like the amusing tantrum of a spoiled child.

One corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"A marvelous display of efficiency, Chief," she murmured. "It is comforting to know you prioritize our timeline."

She took a step forward. The rustle of her robes was the only sound.

"After all, when this conflict tilts in our favor, the elves will prove to be... uniquely bountiful neighbors. Our new allies possess such a spectacular abundance of resources. Particularly agriculture."

Her eyes drifted around the room, taking in the cracked plaster, the empty sconces, the faded banners.

"I often look upon this charmingly modest valley and think how much you would benefit from a sudden, desperate influx of foreign sustenance."

She let the words settle.

To the guards and servants, it sounded like a promise of prosperity.

To Miroslav, who had watched his people ration grain for three seasons, it was a blade twisted in the gut—a reminder that she controlled who ate and who starved.

She stepped closer.

"The hands of God are with you, Chief. Do not turn them away now."

She smiled. It was practiced, empty, and did not reach her eyes.

"This village was once the brightest jewel in Fredendore. I truly believe we can still go in that direction."

With that, she swept from the room, her robes whispering against the floorboards as Oliver led her toward the guest quarters.

The silence she left behind was suffocating.

---

"So..." Sebastian said, his voice too loud in the empty hall. "The High Priestess just drops by to announce we're at war?"

He looked around the table.

"Did I miss something while I was gone? What war is she even talking about?"

His father lowered his head and pressed his fingers to his forehead.

"We would not be looked down upon," Miroslav said quietly, "if my son had not abandoned his duty. We are in this crisis because we do not have a Chief."

"You *do* have a Chief," Sebastian said.

Before he could continue, Giulia touched his arm.

"Not now."

Sebastian looked at her. He saw the warning in her eyes, and the grief beneath it.

He turned back to his father.

"The day after tomorrow," Sebastian said. "I'll go retrieve Vajra from the dragon's cave."

The elders stirred. Giulia's hand fell from his arm.

Sebastian did not wait for permission. He walked out of the room, his boots echoing down the hall.

Giulia remained.

She stood very still, her face a mask of control. But beneath it, something was boiling—guilt, shame, and the words she had not been able to say.