Chapter 13 Shadows Over the Banquet
The fire crackled at the center of the banquet ground. Laughter echoed under the night sky as tribal elders raised wooden mugs of mead and roasted boar glistened over open flames. Beneath the golden hue of torchlight, Chief Marko sat beside Singha—the war-hardened elder of the Ragnar tribe—swapping stories of old battles and debating over the future alliance of their people.
But Marko wasn't smiling.
Not anymore.
He tried to laugh, to blend into the cheer of celebration, but every few moments, his gaze would drift toward the entrance of the camp. The same thought had been gnawing at him for over four hours now.
"Where is Maria?"
She had left with Roy, the young heir of the Ragnar clan, for what was supposed to be a peaceful walk. A moment to let the two bloodlines connect—perhaps even spark a future bond. But now, the night had grown too long.
Too quiet.
He masked his unease with a sip from his mug, but the drink turned sour in his throat.
Singha raised an eyebrow, noticing. "You're distracted, Marko," he said, setting down his cup. "Worried about your daughter? Heh. Young ones take their time when their hearts are involved."
Marko tried to smile. "Maybe. But even the boldest hearts don't walk four hours in a forest crawling with beasts."
Before Singha could reply, a soldier burst into the firelight—dusty, breathless, his chest rising and falling with panic. "Report!"
Marko stood up instantly, voice sharp. "Speak."
The soldier hesitated, mouth dry. "A pack of wolves… they're approaching the outer perimeter. At least fifty of them."
The music died.
Every warrior turned their eyes toward the man. The drums silenced. The laughter faded like fog.
Singha frowned. "Wolves? That's not news, boy. We live near the forest—"
The soldier raised his hand, trembling. "No, Chief. Not just wolves. A man… riding on a giant white wolf leads them."
Marko's heart skipped. His eyes narrowed. "White wolf?"
The soldier gulped. "And… Lady Maria… she's with them."
Marko took a step forward. "What… did you just say?"
"Maria's with them, sir. And the young master Roy… he's—he's severely injured."
That was all it took.
Singha rose from his seat like a storm breaking from stillness. He strode toward the soldier and gripped him by the collar, dragging him half into the air. "Injured? What do you mean injured?" he barked. "What the hell happened?!"
"His… his arm, sir. It's been… severed. Cut clean from the shoulder."
The words hit like thunder.
Gasps erupted. Mugs crashed to the floor. Even the wind seemed to still.
Marko's voice dropped low. "His arm… cut off?"
Singha's face turned red with fury. "WHO DID THIS?!" He threw the soldier down and roared toward the heavens. "WHO DARES TOUCH THE SON OF RAGNAR?!"
Before anyone could answer, the sound of wolves howling echoed from beyond the ridge. It wasn't one howl. It was dozens. The ground seemed to tremble with the rhythm of their approach.
And then…
A new figure appeared at the edge of the firelight.
Blood-streaked. Silent. Determined.
Maria.
She stepped forward with measured steps, her eyes empty of expression. Her right hand was stained in drying crimson, and her left clutched something wrapped in a braided grass rope.
It swung with each step.
A severed human arm.
The crowd recoiled. Some stood. Others froze in place.
Marko's voice cracked, filled with disbelief. "Maria…? My little girl… what is this…?" He rushed toward her, heart pounding. "Whose… whose arm is that?!"
But Maria didn't answer immediately.
Her steps didn't falter until she stood between the campfire and the two clan chiefs. She dropped the arm in front of them with a sickening thud. The crackling fire painted the blood in gold and black.
"Tyris, the Lord of Wolves, sends his greetings," she repeated, her voice steady, yet hollow. "He says he has come to claim the land of our tribe. And he will end the threat of Ragnar before it starts."
The silence that followed was almost louder than the gasps from before.
Marko stared at her, wide-eyed, his voice barely a whisper. "Claim… our tribe?"
Maria nodded, then stepped closer to Ragnar's side of the gathering. Her gaze fixed on Singha and his brother, Aber. She held up the severed arm wrapped in grass.
"This," she said, "is the arm of Roy. Tyris says to return it to your clan. And tell the Ragnar Chief—if he wants the rest of his son alive, he should return to the lands he came from."
With both hands, she lowered the arm onto a fur-covered table between the Ragnar chiefs. Blood smeared across the surface. A few warriors stepped back in horror, others drew their blades instinctively.
Aber jumped to his feet, his eyes glowing with disbelief. "You dare insult the House of Ragnar with this... filth? You let her walk in here covered in blood, holding Roy's arm?!"
Singha didn't speak. His fists were clenched, his jaw twitching. Rage swelled inside him like a volcano on the edge of eruption.
"Marko," he growled slowly, "is this your idea of a peace offering? Or are you just too weak to protect your own daughter?!"
Marko stepped forward, voice rising. "Singha—enough. Don't twist this. Look at her! She's in shock. Something happened out there that none of us expected."
"Shock?" Singha barked a laugh. "She delivered the message. Held his arm like a cursed token. And you think she's innocent?"
"She's my daughter!" Marko snapped. "She would never raise a hand against Roy!"
Maria's voice broke through the argument, quiet but sharp. "I didn't cut off his arm."
Both men turned to her.
She looked at the ground, as if her soul had been stained.
"Tyris did it. But he… made me hold the blade. He used my hand. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't move. It all happened so fast."
Aber's eyes narrowed. "You expect us to believe that? The daughter of the chief, forced to carry out a barbaric act, and now suddenly the mouthpiece of a savage who thinks he's a king?"
Singha growled, taking a threatening step forward. "Where is Roy now?!"
"He's alive," Maria said quickly. "But injured. Tyris has him… the wolves are guarding him. He said he'd spare him if you returned to your lands without conflict."
Singha's face twisted in fury. "Return to our lands? We bled for this territory! You think I'll bow my head because a wild dog barks from the woods?!"
Marko raised a hand. "Singha, calm down. We don't know who this Tyris really is. If he commands that many wolves and defeats Roy so easily, then we need to understand what we're facing."
"You're weak, Marko!" Singha roared. "This is exactly why your tribe hasn't won a war in decades! You talk about understanding, while my son is mutilated and humiliated?!"
"I'm protecting my people!" Marko shouted back, eyes burning. "And if you charge at him like a fool, you'll bring death to both tribes!"
The tension reached its peak. Every warrior present had their hand on their weapon. Spears were subtly lowered. Arrows knocked.
Maria turned to her father, tears brimming in her eyes now. "Father… please. Tyris is dangerous. He's not like anything we've seen. He didn't flinch when he faced Roy. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even kill him—because he wanted this message delivered. He wanted us to talk."
Marko looked at her carefully. He saw it—the fear still gripping her fingers, the tremble in her legs, the guilt she couldn't voice.
Singha snarled. "If he wants war, I'll give him one. I'll raise the whole Ragnar army and burn that cursed forest to ash."
"And what if your son dies before you even get there?" Marko asked coldly. "What then, Singha?"
The older warrior stared at him, breathing heavily. The silence stretched. Then he turned away, pacing.
"Three Hours," he muttered. "Give him 3 Hours ultimatum. Then we will march."
Aber stepped forward. "But brother—"
"I said three hours!" Singha snapped. "If that beast doesn't release my son by then, I'll rip him apart myself. Wolf or not."
Marko finally turned to his daughter and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Come. You need to rest."
Maria didn't resist. But as she followed her father back into the inner camp, she looked once more toward the forest, where the howls still echoed in the dark.