The Dragonic Caveman System

Chapter 24: Night of Steel

The night was quiet, but Rex felt everything.

He walked through the village as the light bled from the sky, the Blood Bond showing him emotions he was still learning to read. Tor’s thread was a cold wire of fury, barely controlled. Fen’s was a trembling bowstring. Mira’s flickered with nervous excitement. Kress and the Lizardkin were steadier, a low pulse of discipline. The goblin scouts were distant but alert.

And Rhea. Rhea was a steady flame, waiting for him in their hut. But He wasn’t ready to go to her yet. There were people to see first.

---

He found Marta at the forge, though the fires had been banked for the night. She was packing supply bundles—dried meat in leaves, water skins, clean hide strips for bandages. Her movements were brisk, efficient.

"Couldn’t sleep either?" Rex asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Sleep is for people who don’t have to send children into battle." She didn’t look up. "Mira’s packed. Tor and Fen are packed. The Lizardkin are packed. You’re the last one."

"I have Rhea for that."

"Rhea has other things on her mind." Marta finally met his eyes. She held out a bundle—dried fish, flatbread, a small pouch of crushed herbs for wounds. "Bring them all back. Even the big ones."

The Lizardkin. Marta had been wary of them when they first arrived, clutching her knife whenever they came near her fire. Weeks of shared meals and watches had worn that down. Now she packed their supplies with the same care she gave her own.

"I’ll do everything I can," Rex said.

"I know. That’s what worries me." She pressed the bundle into his hands. "You’re the kind of man who’ll die to save everyone else. Just... don’t. We need you alive, Dragon-Bound. Not a martyr."

Rex didn’t know what to say to that. He tucked the bundle under his arm. "Thank you, Marta. For everything."

She waved him off. Through the Blood Bond, her thread was warm. Worried. Hopeful.

---

The shrine of carved bones sat in a corner of Tor’s hut—small bones from hunts and battles, arranged in patterns only the River Folk understood. Offerings to ancestors. Reminders of the dead.

Tor sat cross-legged before it, his back to the door. He didn’t turn.

"You’re not subtle," Tor said. "I felt you coming."

"Huh? How?"

"You walk like a mammoth." No humor in his voice. "What do you want, Rex?"

Rex sat beside him. A single tallow candle flickered, shadows dancing across the carved bones. In Tor’s hands was a small object—a mammoth, crudely carved from driftwood. Crooked tusks. One leg shorter than the others.

"What’s that?" Rex asked quietly.

"Something I made for my sister when we were little...She was six when I made it. I was eleven. Fen was barely walking." Tor turned the mammoth over in his calloused hands. "She carried it everywhere. Slept with it under her furs. Said it would protect her from the dark."

Rex didn’t speak. Through the Blood Bond, Tor’s grief was heavy, compressed over years, now cracking open.

"The day they took her..." Tor’s voice dropped. "It was a tribute collection. The Mouths came, and everyone was focused on them. The Stone Fists used the chaos. Hit the eastern side—where the children were hiding. Took seven. Alara was the youngest."

"You were just fifteen," Rex said.

"I was her brother. I should have been there."

"You were fighting the Mouths."

"I should have been there," Tor repeated. The words came out like something he’d never said aloud. "I’ve told myself for five years she died quickly. That she didn’t suffer. But if she’s their shaman now, she’s been alive this whole time. Serving the dragon. Becoming... whatever they made her into. And I wasn’t there."

Rex put a hand on Tor’s shoulder. Through the Blood Bond, he let Tor feel his presence. Steady. There.

"If she’s too far gone..." Tor’s voice cracked. "If I have to... if it’s my hand that..."

He couldn’t finish.

Rex could have offered platitudes. But those were words for people who hadn’t held a dying friend. Tor deserved better.

"It will feel like mercy," Rex said quietly. "But it will hurt. Both things can be true."

Tor was silent for a long moment. Then he tucked the carved mammoth into his belt, beside his copper axe. "I’m bringing this. If there’s anything left of the girl who used to chase fireflies by the river—I want her to see it. I want her to know I didn’t forget."

"She’ll know."

Tor finally looked at him. His eyes were wet, but his jaw was set. The cold fury was still there, changed now—no longer a wound, but a weapon. "Let’s finish this."

---

Nara’s alcove smelled of burning sage and something older. Screech paced along the edge of the fire pit, feathers puffed, chirping with agitation.

Nara sat in the center, eyes closed, hands cupped around a bowl of smoking herbs. The spiral tattoo on her temple seemed to pulse in the firelight. Her lips moved silently—not Common, not the goblin tongue, but the language of the spirits.

Rex waited until her eyes opened.

"The shaman," Nara said without preamble. "I’ve been scrying her. Following her spiritual signature back to its source."

"And?"

She set down the bowl. Her expression was troubled—more than he’d seen since the day she’d called him a demon. "The corruption in her isn’t self-contained. It’s anchored. There’s a tether running from her soul to the south. Toward the mountains."

"Valthorion."

"Yes. She’s connected. The dragon is feeding her power directly. She’s a conduit."

Rex’s mind raced. "If we kill her, does the connection break?"

"Killing her would sever the tether, yes. But..." Nara hesitated. "If we sever it without killing her—while she’s still alive—there’s a chance she could survive. The corruption would remain, but without Valthorion feeding it, her own spirit might fight it off. Over time."

"Tor’s sister. You think we can save her."

"I think it’s possible. Not certain. Not even likely. But possible." Nara met his eyes. "But there’s a cost. Severing a tether like that requires direct contact. I’d need to be close enough to touch her during the battle. And the moment I cut the connection, Valthorion will feel it. He’ll know we’re interfering."

Rex shook his head. "That’s too dangerous."

"He already knows where we are," Nara said. "He’s known since the Mouths found us. The question isn’t whether he knows. It’s whether he decides we’re worth his personal attention. If we start cutting his tethers, we become a real threat. Not just a village that survived a few skirmishes."

"Nara—"

"You’re not the only one who gets to sacrifice, Dragon-Bound." Her voice was calm, but through the Blood Bond her thread blazed. "I’ve spent ten years watching my tribe die. Watching children get taken for tribute. Watching warriors come back with empty eyes. I’m done watching. If there’s a chance to save that girl—to spit in Valthorion’s eye and prove he’s not invincible—I’m taking it."

Rex stared at her. Screech chirped once, sharply, as if in agreement.

"Close enough to touch," Rex said finally. "That means you’ll be in the thick of it."

"I’ve been in fights before."

"Not like this one." But he saw the resolve in her thread, and he knew there was no arguing. "Fine. You stay behind Kress and the Lizardkin until we’ve thinned their numbers. You don’t move in until I give the signal. And if it goes wrong—if the shaman is too strong, or the tether fights back—you retreat. Immediately."

Nara inclined her head. "Agreed."

"Good." Rex turned to leave, then paused. "Nara? Thank you. For trying."

She picked up her bowl again. "Don’t thank me yet. Thank me if it works."