CHAPTER 33: THE COUNCIL OF SIX

Somewhere in the Gorge of the Tribes, in the hollow of a natural amphitheater surrounded by black cliffs, a discreet fire burned. The flames devoured damp wood, casting reddish glows on the walls. The wind whistled in the heights and made the torches flicker, but here, in this secret circle, silence weighed heavy.

They were six. Six chieftains who had come in person, seated on crude chairs arranged around the brazier.

The first to rise was a slender woman, skin milky white marked with fine scars, chest half-exposed beneath a half-opened armor. She spoke in a dry voice that cracked the air like a whip:

— Lyrria Veynn, chieftain of the Ivory Fangs. Fortress of the Knife.

To her left, a tall dark-skinned figure, wide hips draped with a beast’s cape thrown back, stood up. Her heavy breasts were covered only by a necklace of polished bones hanging between them. She raised her chin, her deep voice resounding:

— Zae Zahr, chieftain of the Burning Sands. Camp of the Dunes.

A third rose, tattooed from head to toe, her leather straps too tight, threatening to snap with every breath. One had already slipped, leaving a bare breast quivering under the firelight. She fixed her amber gaze on the assembly and declared:

— Oranna Khyss, chieftain of the Red Rocks. City of Kar’ash.

Behind her, a chieftain with long black hair and a translucent robe soaked with humidity slowly crossed her legs, shamelessly offering the vision of her glistening thigh beneath the clinging muslin. Her voice flowed like dark water:

— Neyvara Sol, chieftain of the Abysses. Palace of the Black Lake.

The wind snapped a heavy cape, revealing the massive stature of another. Her dark skin gleamed with sweat, her iron corset too tight compressing an enormous chest that threatened to burst with every breath. She stomped her heel and growled:

— Drazira Varn, chieftain of the Howling Rocks. Tower of Basalt.

Finally, the last raised her head. Finer, colder, her blonde hair framed a face with pale, almost translucent eyes. She wore a tight dress that emphasized subtler but deadly calculated curves. Her voice was as sharp as a knife in the night:

— Serenya Kael, chieftain of the Mists. Fortress of the Shadow.

The circle closed.

Behind them, generals and servants stood upright, weapons ready. As for the messengers sent by Sora, their bodies spoke louder than their mouths: clawed breasts, thighs marked with dried seed, bellies scarred with red-hot iron. Some trembled, others stared at the fire as if still seeking meaning in its flames.

They were about thirty. Thirty women, warriors or leaders, gathered in the secrecy of the night. Their faces lit one after another in the dance of the fire, revealing pride at times, fear at others. A secret council had just opened, and with it, the sketch of a fragile truce in the face of the man who was already overturning their world.

The silence lingered for a moment, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind between the cliffs. The six chieftains, seated in a circle, stared at the flames as if seeking within them the truth they all dreaded.

It was Lyrria, the scarred chieftain, who spoke first. She straightened, the light sliding across her half-bare chest, and her clear voice cut through the night:

— In just a few weeks, this man has done what none of us achieved in a lifetime. He has taken the greater part of the Gorge’s springs. Water, our lifeblood... now flows under his authority.

Neyvara slowly raised her ink-stained fingers, icy.

— My scribes have calculated. In less than a month, he will have all the water of the Gorge. Her dry voice made the assembly shiver.

Lyrria suddenly struck the table with her open palm. The wood resounded, sharp, and her heavy breasts quivered with the blow, drawing eyes for an instant despite the tension.

— Fuck.

Zae, the tall ebony-skinned woman, snapped her cape back. Her heavy breasts, gleaming with sweat beneath the bone necklace, swayed with every movement. Her deep voice rumbled like a drum:

— He has united a tribe huge, larger than ours. His males do not fear him... they worship him. And his females dare not defy him. How?

She leaned slightly forward, and the slit of her skirt slid across her muscular thigh, exposed in the trembling torchlight. Her voice remained deep, but her body already imposed silence.

— By dominating them with his strength, but also by giving them what we have refused for generations: a reward.

Oranna, the tattooed one, leaned forward. Her straps slipped further, baring her breast entirely. She didn’t even bother to cover it, letting the flame lick the dark areola. Her lips curved into a mocking smile:

— Exceptional warrior, terrifying strategist. I have seen the marks he left on my scouts. He strikes like a predator. But more than that... he thinks like a serpent. Every blow he deals, every punishment, every caress... all is calculated.

A murmur ran through the generals sitting behind. Sora’s messengers, kneeling, trembled silently. One of them, belly branded with hot iron, dared lift her eyes. Her voice was weak, but each word weighed.

— He... he sees you. When he speaks, it is as if your entrails twist to obey him. I felt his gaze inside me... and I obeyed without thinking.

Another, breasts clawed and thighs still stained with dried seed, added in a hoarse voice:

— He rewards as much as he breaks. The most docile, he drowns them in pleasure. The rebels... he marks them, he bends them, he leaves them panting and ashamed, unable to think of anything but his scent.

The flames lit their scarred faces, their wounded bodies. Some of the chieftains averted their eyes for an instant, but Neyvara, mistress of the Abysses, slowly parted the damp folds of her robe. Her glistening thigh appeared, her fingers brushing her wet skin as if to emphasize her words.

— He is not only a strategist. He is a charmer. He inspires a supernatural discipline. His males fall silent with a gesture, his females arch with a single order. We have shaped generations of submissive men... and he rekindles them like a blaze.

Drazira, the massive one, burst into bitter laughter. Her enormous breasts nearly burst from her iron corset as she struck her breastplate.

— That is the danger! What he inspires! Our males, yesterday beaten dogs, rise up for him. They feel in him a chief, a hope. If we let this grow, tomorrow our own tribes will turn against us.

A heavy silence fell after the messengers’ words. The fire crackled faintly, but the air seemed charged with electricity. The six chieftains watched one another, each aware that the words to come would weigh heavily.

It was Drazira, the iron-corseted colossus, who broke the silence. She straightened, her enormous breasts almost spilling from the metal, and slammed her fist onto her breastplate with a sharp clang.

— It is not his military victories that haunt me at night, but what he awakens in the hearts of males. That hope... that new flame. We have kept them under our heel for generations, and now one man shows them the yoke can be broken.

She spat on the ground, her powerful hips spreading under the tension.

Lyrria, the scarred one, slowly nodded. Her fingers slid along the slit of her skirt, absentmindedly caressing the scar that cut across her thigh.

— She is right. That hope is more dangerous than all his conquests. Males dream again. And a male who dreams is an enemy we cannot control.

Zae, the dark one with heavy breasts, crouched closer to the fire, spreading her legs. Her cape slipped, revealing the sweat shining between her breasts. Her voice vibrated like a war drum.

— Scourge or miracle, it matters not. If he is not struck down immediately, he will grow further. And when he has enough males behind him, it is all of us who will fall.

Oranna, the tattooed one, burst into a dry laugh. Her straps loosened further, leaving her two breasts fully bare, which she offered to the fire as a provocation.

— You tremble because he fascinates you. You call him scourge, but in your wombs you know he is a chief such as we have never seen. I admire him. But even I have only one choice: he must die. His greatness condemns him.

The branded messengers, kneeling behind them, lowered their eyes. One of them, naked to the waist, began to weep, murmuring:

— You will not be able to... He is already in you. You feel it, don’t you? Even as you speak of him, your thighs tighten... your bellies contract...

A brutal silence fell. Several chieftains stiffened, their faces closing. Neyvara, mistress of the Abysses, gently parted the wet folds of her robe, revealing the glistening intimacy of her thick thighs. Her voice was almost a breath:

— She speaks truth. Even I... still feel his imprint. But it is precisely for that reason we must annihilate him. For none of us will ever resist him if he grows further.

The flames cast red gleams across their exposed bodies, the branded messengers, the burning stares crossing one another.

Despite the strength of their words, their bodies betrayed them. Sweat beaded between their breasts, their breaths grew quicker, their thighs clenched beneath the table. A humid silence fell before one finally breathed the word: truce.

At last, Lyrria raised her hand. Her gesture was solemn, her voice hard.

— Then let us do what we have never dared: a sacred truce. No more rivalries, no more ancient grudges. Until this man is reduced to ashes, we shall be a single blade.

Zae slammed her fist against the ground. Oranna nodded with a cold smile. Neyvara inclined her head, her lips gleaming with moisture. Drazira snorted but ended up nodding. Serenya, the last, closed her eyes and spoke in a low voice:

— So be it. Until his death, we are sisters-in-arms.

The fire wavered, as if to seal their oath. Around them, the thirty women present felt the weight of this unprecedented pact. Sora had just united, despite himself, those who had never shared anything but a common hatred.

Their voices had barely fallen silent. The sacred pact seemed engraved in the flames, and the very air vibrated with this unheard-of oath. But suddenly, a sharp crack resounded, echoed by the rocky walls.

All froze.

A second noise, clearer, like a rope creaking, followed by a muffled murmur. In the heights, where the cliffs rose like black walls, shifting shadows had already gathered.

Lyrria was the first to raise her head. Her pale eyes narrowed, and a rough breath escaped her throat.

— By the Ancients...

Around the fire circle, heads lifted one by one. On the ridge, fifty silhouettes were etched against the gloom. Men and women, bows drawn, arrows aimed at the heart of the assembly. Their silence chilled more than the torches.

The chieftains immediately rose, capes flung back, bare flesh shamelessly exposed in their haste. Drazira made as if to seize the axe at her feet, but already three shining tips were aimed at her throat.

— Shit... she hissed through clenched teeth, her enormous breasts compressed by the iron that groaned under the pressure.

Zae, her thighs slick with sweat beneath her beast-cape, spun like a wolf surrounded. Her gaze blazed.

— Who betrayed us?! she roared, her voice echoing off the walls.

The cry multiplied in echoes, tearing the silence.

The branded messengers, kneeling behind the chieftains, shuddered. Some lowered their heads at once, as if to hide a smile. One, bare-chested, her breasts still marked with whip scars, let out a strangled laugh that went unnoticed in the tumult.

Oranna, her tattooed breasts exposed, whirled abruptly toward her.

— It was you?!

But already, a rain of dust spilled from the cliffs: the archers above were tightening ranks, bow to bow, string to string. Their silhouettes merged into a perfect circle, threatening, closed.

The icy breath of the wind made the central fire’s flames waver. Each chieftain felt her guts contract. Bewilderment flickered in their eyes, reflected one to another.

Neyvara spread the soaked folds of her robe, rising to her full height, her thick thighs trembling with new tension.

— Impossible... she whispered, incredulous. How could they have known?

Serenya, veiled in shadows, raised her head toward the crown of archers. Her voice, icy, cut through the tumult like a blade:

— We are trapped.

A brutal silence fell, heavier still than the threat of arrows. The chieftains, who had only just sealed a sacred alliance, understood that they were naked in the gorge, exposed, their bodies taut and vulnerable, beneath the bows of unseen enemies.

I let the silence last.

My boots crunched on the rock as I began to descend the slope, step by step. The torches below cast my immense shadow on the cliffs, a stretched silhouette that already seemed to dominate the circle of queens. I knew they had recognized me long before discerning my features. That taut silence, those raised gazes... it was the same mix of disbelief and fear I had already read in the eyes of their warriors.

The wind pressed my cape against my bare chest. My skin still bore the fresh traces of blood and dust, scars of a conquest that was nothing human. I felt their breath cut off as I descended, as if each of them, despite her pride, sensed what she was truly seeing: the end of their ancient world.

Then, even before my feet touched the black sand of the circle, the first to move were—

The messengers.

Those they believed they had saved, those they thought still held to their side. They stepped forward, all of them, as if pulled by an invisible thread. The soiled bandages slipped from their flesh. One, bare-chested, breasts streaked with fresh marks, let her cloth fall to the ground. Another, lips split and thighs covered in scratches, clenched her fists before kneeling.

Then they bent the knee.

In a single movement, as if their bodies had been trained by centuries of adoration, they pressed themselves to the ground, forehead against the black earth. And their voices, hoarse, broken, burst together, sharp as a divine command:

— "Glory to Sora!"

Their cries echoed against the cliffs, multiplying in a monstrous echo that shook the air.

The chieftains recoiled as one, some blushing despite themselves, others turning their eyes away. A forbidden shiver passed through their wombs, mingling rage and dread.

I smiled. Then I laughed. Not with a nervous laugh, nor a shrill laugh of victory. No. A calm laugh, deep, gliding through the air like a cold blade across an offered throat.

I saw all their faces.

Lyrria, mouth agape, unable to breathe. Zae, hands clenched on her cape, heavy breasts trembling with rage. Oranna, her tattoos seeming to pulse with the rush of blood. Neyvara, robe soaked, clinging to her thick thighs, lips bitten to blood. Drazira, trapped in her iron corset, every jolt of her enormous chest betraying panic. Serenya, draped in shadows, motionless, but her amber eyes quivering with contained fury.

They were six, and all wavered.

I let my laughter die slowly, then advanced again.

Each step I took drew my shadow closer to their taut bodies, their skins bared beneath the torches. I could almost feel the sweat beading between their breasts, see the shiver running down their clenched thighs. Warriors or queens, it mattered little: they were nothing more than prey, encircled, trapped by their own decisions.

At last I stopped, close enough for my eyes to plunge into theirs, and spoke in a low, steady, implacable voice:

— You thought this world belonged to you.

I paused, my gaze sweeping over their naked flesh, their oppressed breasts, their faces taut with rage and fear.

— But tonight... it is mine.