Julnan and Yachit had had no idea that these were the issues that plagued their master behind his unbothered fa?ade.

  “What are you going to do, master?”

  “What can I do?” he asked angrily.

  “Am I expected to stand up to them with trash like you? When even the simplest of tasks is met with failure and excuses, and instead of focusing on the next thing at hand, I have to hear whining about a cripple? It’s bad enough to be suppressed by my brothers, but for you to cut such sorry figures before outsiders so that even that Goblin slut can disrespect me. You’re useless, all of you!”

  The pair was speechless and bowed before their master in his rage, not daring to say anything, even by way of apology.

  Despite the expectation that he would continue his tirade, he went back to facing the affairs that cluttered his desk before dismissing them and telling them they had the week off to recuperate.

  As they retreated, he suddenly changed his mind and called Julnan back into his study.

  They waited in awkward silence as the aromatic steam from the teacups that had been swiftly ushered in by a silent command to the maid titillated their senses.

  Busa took a deep breath of it before taking the first sip.

  It was only after he relinquished it to the coaster tea tray that Julnan dared to lift his own cup tentatively to his own lips. He gave the same generic praise that was expected of such tea, the sort of praise that was all the more hollow for its truth.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Julnan mulled the question over seriously and then levelled the gentle gaze of his honey brown eyes at his master.

  “Is Sabo that important?”

  “Is there anything more important than that?” was the smiling reply of the young master.

  His expression was relaxed and betrayed no hint of the personal and political turmoil that engulfed his young heart. Even Julnan couldn’t tell whether he was truly at peace or if he was hiding behind the usual mask.

  “If so, then an alliance is the best option. Forgive me for saying master, but you’re not likely to overtake either of them for the position of clan lord.”

  He was unoffended and merely asked who he thought he should hitch his wagon to.

  “Young master Garo has made his position rather clear, I think. By forcing a decision on you, he’s pushed you to the camp of the second young master, hasn’t he?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said mildly, “Danjuma is dangerous.”

  “Surely he’s not a worse enemy to make than the eldest young master. Be it personal strength, connections, or manoeuvring politics, he’s the most formidable of you three brothers.”

  “Us three?” he replied with his signature sharp smile.

  Julnan gave no answer.

  “Well, what you say is very true, but Danjuma’s a little… special. I know you don’t understand the intricacies of cultivation, but igniting your first Dantian before adulthood is extremely rare. Few people in the entire Jan Zaki can boast of it.”

  Julnan absorbed the information and then asked why he didn’t consider taking his side then. After all, with his own fairly substantial accruements, a coalition with one of the most talented individuals in the Elven race could scarcely be a bad political move.

  “That’s impossible,” he said carelessly, draining his cup and breathing out a puff of steam from between his puckered lips before rising and facing the eastern window, “I’ve always hated him above all.”

  Julnan watched his master in the mellow atmosphere created by the now rising sun, having no answer to give him. He seemed possessed by a desire for inaction, a thing the young servant had never seen in him.

  “I have a sort of immature desire,” he said suddenly, catching the first rays of the golden sun in his eyes as he spoke, “do not laugh at it.”

  “I desire not to choose. Not to be constrained by this pressure. Yes, I am grass, and it is right that grass be crushed underfoot, but still I desire something beyond this tedious life of successions and conspiracy.”

  “If that’s what you desire truly, master, then feel free to use my insignificant self however you wish.”

  “What can you do? Even if you die, you won’t be able to accomplish anything with your meagre strength. A small distraction at most.”

  “Then I’ll die even if it buys you only a second.”

  At this, the young master’s brow finally furrowed. He was evidently displeased by this token of sincerity.

  “That’s enough,” he said, dismissing him, “idle dreams will carry us nowhere.”

  At the same time, just some ways before the boundary of the Lowlands, a group of well-dressed travellers in a convoy of battered class b heavy-duty trucks[1] were in tense confrontation with another less presentable group who seemed intent on blocking their path.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Has the great Lion lost so much face in these parts that even bandits dare delay us?” The question came from the harsh lips of an equally harsh-looking elderly man whose ornate agbada[2] and well-kempt grey beard spoke of luxury and position.

  Despite the miserable state of the convoy, the bloody emblem of the lion was still highly visible. Most bandits would avoid such a large piece of meat, fearing that they could not swallow, much less digest, it.

  “They’re not putting our Dari clan in their eyes at all,” another voice said, coming from a notably younger but still similar person.

  “These do not appear to be bandits, honourable uncles,” said a gentle voice in reply to them, “I think they call themselves the bori.”

  “Bori?” queried the second old man. “Aren’t they dancers?”

  “Not exactly, fourth uncle,” the youth said with an amicable smile and small chuckle, "though they were known to move around and perform back in the day. They’ve assembled into a proper cult now and seem to be keen about worshipping in the... ‘old ways’. They seem to be particularly irate with our nine clans, also. Quite a few convoys have already suffered attacks over the past few years.”

  “Why haven’t we heard about this at all?”

  “Who would bother your illustrious selves with such small matters, uncles?”

  “Hmmph! When was it the turn of these mad dogs to flash their teeth at the Lion? I’ll go down and teach them manners in the stead of the sluts that gave birth to them.”

  The bad-tempered geezer seemed about to descend and carry out his threats when the young man anticipated him and rushed out of the cushy interior of the vehicle.

  “Uncles, please make yourselves comfortable. How can I let you deal with such a nuisance when I’m here?”

  “Young sire, you suffered some injuries earlier; it’s better to leave this rabble to your uncles.”

  The strict uncle nodded in agreement.

  “This little thing can’t be considered a serious injury, uncles, so there’s no need for concern. Furthermore, I have a new technique I’m working out that I didn’t get the opportunity to use during that beast attack, so I’ll bother you uncles to leave it to me.”

  An interested light entered the eyes of the pair on hearing this, and they no longer resisted, but still insisted on following behind him to observe.

  A few moments later, the group of three met the gang of about two dozen or more who blocked their path.

  “Greetings,” the youth said with energy, though he did not bow, “I’m of the Straight Bow Dari Clan, second.”

  There was a collective murmur at this introduction. For this young man to introduce himself in such a manner meant that he was a proper lineal descendant of the Dari clan, not some mook from the numerous branch families. This made the formerly aggressive group somewhat more reserved, as there was a big difference between defying the great clans and throwing your life away. After all, not only was victory uncertain, but outsiders who touched lineal descendants of the great clans without sufficient means to cover it up or backing to absorb the backlash would die ignominious deaths and be uprooted up to the third generation.

  Comparatively, Danjuma was patient and tranquil, waiting for them to decide among themselves the next course of action. His composure served to further unsettle them like a predator who knew his presence had unsettled the flock but was content to pick his moment to strike.

  From within their midst, though, parting the crowd of ruffians like water, a tall man decked out in beads and a leather wrapper round his waist stood before the heir and gave a polite bow in his direction.

  His stoic face in front of the young master showed that he was definitely not going to give up without a fight.

  “My apologies,” the man began, “we weren’t expecting such illustrious guests, so we had no time to make ourselves presentable.”

  “That’s perfectly fine. We’re also in a rush, so we have no plans to task your generosity.”

  “Where to?”

  Rather than replying, the young master looked over the crowd behind him and smiled.

  “Your group cannot defeat or even delay us for long.”

  The man looked back at his band and didn’t deny the statement.

  “If you step aside, I promise your men will be spared. You, as their leader, must of course be dealt with.”

  The man did not speak, looking him dead in the eye.

  “Why oppose us? I’m not aware of any quarrel between ourselves and you.”

  “Because you are the heathen.”

  Danjuma seemed surprised by this but managed the usual Elven spiel about being faithful servants of the gods.

  “The gods are usurpers. The land belongs to us and our ancestral spirits. Ani would make us slaves to the Earth.”

  Danjuma was oddly piqued by this line of reasoning and, having no deep allegiance to either the Thunder or Earth, was inclined to continue the conversation. However, he noticed the growing impatience of his uncles and knew that he would have to wrap up soon.

  “It’s my own opinion that if these ancestral spirits were the rightful owners of our realm,” he said, tilting his head a little to the side, “then they would have it. After all, the strength to claim is the only license to rule.”

  “Do you mean to say that if you were stronger than your gods, you’d have the right to rule over them?”

  Danjuma only smiled at this question, as though to say that the answer was obvious.

  “Hmph, see the manner of devotees such a rancid pantheon gathers onto itself. You hold onto the form of religion while denying the power of it.”

  “Only the power of the blade matters,” Danjuma said easily, watching his opponent remove a curious pair of small axes. “You have one more chance to surrender.”

  The man spoke no more and instead charged at the young Elf, his ruthless double attack prepared to pierce his vitals like a panther on the prowl.

  The sun had just about completed its upward trip during the conversation, and now, in this first true light of the celestial orb, it bathed the world beneath it in the colours of a rich flame.

  Poised under the heavenly light was the young master, his loneliness framed by the warm light in a contradictory yet poignant picture. Yes, he was alone or at least close to it. The two uncles, of course, maintained their positions behind him, but the band of hostiles had all disappeared.

  Disappeared wasn’t quite accurate – after all, there was blood and guts and some remnants of limbs scattered all around in a sort of Pollockian disorder.

  Withdrawing the still spotless blade in his hand (a feat especially impressive as the blade seemed to be one of the purest ivory) to the scabbard at his waist, the young man looked at the scene with some regret and sighed.

  “I have not yet fully worked out the technique, honourable uncles.”

  The pair who had been getting impatient mere moments earlier had to be roused from their awe by his gentle call.

  “Young master,” the younger-looking one said, his face all smiles, “this level of attainment in the clan’s sword arts at your age is nothing short of wondrous.”

  The young master was clearly unsatisfied with this but received their praise respectfully.

  The pair were exceedingly pleased with his poise, even in the face of the danger from enemies or praise from elders.

  The younger one whispered something to his older relative.

  “I almost forgot!” the man exclaimed suddenly.

  At this, his hand stretched out, and a small white flame jumped from his hand and onto the scene of the massacre. On contact, the flame expanded and consumed everything without even the suggestion of ash left behind. The flame disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, like the spark of a flintstone.

  Danjuma was quite impressed with this and gave another gesture of respect, and the three Elves walked back home leisurely with smiles of joviality.

  [1] Truck: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberty_truck

  [2] Agbada: https://pin.it/43KKRTYBC

  Traditional, four-piece, wide-sleeved flowing robe worn by men in Nigeria, the Republic of Benin, and other parts of West Africa, symbolizing elite status and, sometimes, luxury.