Chapter Text
Hekarro
It was long past nightfall when he heard.
He had expected his Marshals to return together, and Hekarro had lingered in his throne room, anticipating their arrival. It would be a long night, one that would be heavy with the loss of Fashav, and he wished to meet them with kind words and strong ale. They would have traveled many nights to return to the Grove; he could stand to lose a few hours of sleep.
Only Dekka remained, along with a few members of the Grove attending to their personal business elsewhere. The Chaplain was wringing her hands as she explained her anxiety surrounding the Visions. They had decayed further over the past year, and with Fashav returned to Meridian, their lessons in glyphs would cease. She was concerned - rightfully so - that they would have no record of the lessons of the Ten by the time the next generation was grown.
When the runner burst into the throne room, he doubled over in exhaustion before he reached the dais. Hekarro rose from his throne, and rushed to the soldier. Desert clan, from the red paint that was smeared across his middle. He gasped and sputtered, attempting to find his breath as words rushed from his mouth.
“Regalla,” he choked. “Regalla attacked the embassy.”
“Where are my Marshals?” Hekarro demanded.
But the soldier only looked up at his chief, eyes panicked and weary, and shook his head.
The Tenakth flirted with death on a daily basis. Hekarro had left trails of blood behind him on his path to Chiefdom. Every person who stood in his way had been deemed his enemy, and he had slaughtered them as if they had been no better than animals - no, as if they had been machines. Cumbersome and useful only in death. Then he had stood alone in the Grove, and his beliefs had crumbled as Faraday’s message irreversibly changed him.
Now he and death were at a stalemate. Death was a necessary evil in war, death was the friend that greeted you at the end of a long and tiresome battle, death was the shadow that followed you into every day, and returned the next no matter how many nights you battled with it.
It was the enemy you would never defeat, and now it had claimed the only family Hekarro had managed to create for himself in his two decades as Chief. It had taken from him-
“There was one,” gasped the soldier, “one who survived.”
“Who?” Hekarro fell to his knees in front of the man, where he knelt on the ground. The soldier said no more, grasping at his chest. Hekarro gripped his shoulders and shook him slightly, trying to rouse him. “Who survived?”
“Marshal Kotallo,” he panted. Among the pain that flooded him, the relief he felt was a boon - one that threaded guilt through his nerves. “But he was maimed. Severely maimed, Chief. Even if he survives… he will not overcome the loss of one of his limbs.”
“Yes,” Hekarro told him. “He will.”
Hekarro, five years prior to the Embassy
Another kulrut was upon them.
The machines only gathered more strength and numbers as the years wore on. Marshals who were untried against these larger beasts fell to them, and left a hole in his defenses. He needed strong soldiers at the heart of his Chiefdom, especially in these times of war.
“My Chief,” Regalla greeted as she entered the throne room. The world stuttered in its rhythm, tilted on its axis, as it always had when she appeared. The earth moved for her, and he could just as easily move mountains than he could remove the emotions that thundered through his chest at the sight of her.
“High Marshal Regalla.” She came to stand at the end of his dais, and from the fire in her eyes, she was here to challenge him once again.
“You do not truly intend on allowing that Carja filth to compete in this kulrut,” she insisted.
“I do,” he answered.
“The information we could receive from him-.”
“Would be given freely if he survives to serve as a Marshal.”
“He is injured and tired from his journey. He knows not what he asks for, and will not survive.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, Marshal.”
“It is an insult to then Ten!” She slammed the end of her spear into the ground. Her voice filled the throne room, drowned in her fury.
“Then we shall leave it up to the Ten to decide his fate,” Hekarro answered.
Her jaw was set and quivering. “The Sky Clan’s contestant has arrived. That means the last of the clans have assembled all of their challengers, and await your arrival in the Arena.”
“Only one?” It was customary to send several contestants, as it was likely that many would fall or faint in battle. The Clans wanted to be represented amongst the Marshals.
“Tekotteh claims that his champion is worth a dozen soldiers. He is known amongst the Sky Clan as the Hero of Barren Light.”
“Tekotteh’s ward, who led his squad into Barren Light and opened their gates from the east. Yes, I have heard. It is strange that Tekotteh would send his best soldier to the kulrut, given that he holds me in such… high esteem.” Hekarro chuckled slightly.
“Even more strange is the fact that Tekotteh is not present to see how his champion fares.”
“What is this soldier’s name, Marshal?”
“His name is Kotallo, Chief.”