Sol, listening quietly while leaning against the totem, felt a flicker of understanding light up his eyes. So, the tribe is desperate, he analyzed. They are throwing everything they have into this generation to rebuild their strength. Well, that’s understandable.
But as his analytical mind dissected the politics, his "cultured" mind was busy having a completely different reaction.
Damn.
He had expected a withered crone, a hunchback with warts, or a masked madman rattling bones.
But man! He was wrong. He was really, really wrong.
She was an older woman, yes... her bearing suggested she was easily in her fifties, perhaps older...but damn, she possessed a terrifying, ageless beauty that defied the harshness of the primitive world.
Her hair was a cascading river of liquid silver, reaching her waist, woven intricately with small, bleached bones and glossy black raven feathers. Her skin was unlined, pale and luminous, glowing with a faint, unnatural sheen as if she were lit from within.
But it was her eyes that stopped him cold. They were entirely white... no pupil, no iris, just blank, swirling milk that seemed to see everything and nothing at once.
She wore robes of shimmering spider-silk and dark, cured leather that clung to a body that was still lush, powerful, and undeniably feminine. The fabric accentuated a heavy bust and wide, fertile hips that moved with a hypnotic, swaying grace.
Sol gulped. He knew he should be terrified of the mystic power she represented, but the man in him couldn’t help but appreciate the view. Her mature grace was heart-throbbing, a stark contrast to the raw, unfinished beauty of the younger girls like Liora. This was a woman who had seen the abyss and made it blink.
Focus, Sol scolded himself, though his eyes lingered on the curve of her waist.
She radiated a pressure that Sol felt in his teeth... a static charge that made the hair on his arms stand up.
Dangerous, Sol’s instincts screamed, overriding his libido. She is definitelymore dangerous than the Chief.
Zula stopped at the edge of the platform. Her milky eyes swept over the crowd. She didn’t focus on anyone, yet everyone felt seen. For a split second, Sol felt her gaze pause on his section of the line.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. Had she sensed his lecherous gaze?
She smiled... a small, enigmatic curving of red lips... and turned away.
Sol let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Okay. Don’t catch her eye. Don’t use the power near her. Note taken.
Finally, bringing up the rear of the elite procession, was a figure that drew the gaze of every young man in the square. If before they all didn’t dare to look at shaman, but now they couldn’t help themselves.
It was Seluna. The Chief’s daughter.
She really was breathtaking. Her skin was pale moonlight against the dark, cured leathers of her hunting gear, a stark contrast to the sun-bronzed skin of the rest of the tribe. Her hair was silver-gold, braided tight for war and woven with white beads. She held a bow made of polished white bone, her expression cold, aloof, and utterly untouchable.
She was the Moon of the Tribe.
In the past, the old Sol would have been straining his neck, staring at her with puppy-dog eyes, desperate for a crumb of acknowledgment. He had humiliated himself countless times trying to impress her, only to be met with icy disdain or total invisibility.
Seluna scanned the line of participants, her gaze cool and dismissive, evaluating them like livestock. Varuk puffed up his chest and looked at her with a smile that he thought was super handsome and cool, but she still didn’t spare him a glance, until her eyes landed on... Sol.
She paused, and why wouldn’t she, unlike other nervous or awed youth, he was utterly indifferent as if he didn’t belong to this world, and combined with his handsomeness, it really made him stand out.
She clearly expected the usual reaction... the desperate wave, the blushing, the fawning adoration she received from every male in her age group.
Sol looked at her. Then, with a casual indifference that was more insulting than a slap, he looked away. He turned his attention to the tip of his spear, checking the binding, completely ignoring the "Moon of the Tribe."
Seluna froze. Her perfect, icy mask cracked for a fraction of a second, revealing genuine surprise and a flash of annoyance. She stared at him, waiting for him to look back, to beg for her attention.
But he didn’t. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand.
She huffed, a sharp exhale through her nose that flared her nostrils and marched to her spot at the front of the line, her back stiff with irritation.
Interesting, Sol thought, catching her reaction out of the corner of his eye. Indifference stings more than hate.
"Children of the Osari!"
Suddenly chief Tharun’s voice boomed across the square, deep and resonant, silencing the whispers.
"Look around you!" he roared, gesturing to the palisade walls with a sweeping arm. "Inside these walls, you feel safe. You feel fed. You feel like children."
Sol watched the man. Tharun stood tall, wide, and majestic, his armor gleaming, his presence swallowing the light.
And just like before Sol hated him.
It was a visceral, violent reaction that bubbled up from the marrow of his bones... a legacy of the original Sol that the modern soul couldn’t quite suppress. A wave of nausea rolled in his gut. An intense feeling of disgust rose in his heart, a phantom urge to storm the platform and punch that smug, weathered face until it broke.
He searched his memories for the why, but it was blocked by a wall of gray fog. The hatred was there, burning and toxic, but the reason was buried deep in the hidden trauma of his predecessor.
Sol took a deep breath, forcing his facial muscles to remain neutral. He unclenched his fists, burying the irrational rage under layers of cold logic.
Calm down, he ordered himself. Not the time for it yet, and definitely not the place.