Leroy

The sun scorched the mountain lands, its rays piercing even the most hidden crevices. It provided almost no warmth—it only blinded and seared everything living, a constant reminder that there was no escaping it.

A wet crunch shattered the silence. The eagle chieftain drove his talons into the chest of the last vulture and flung the fallen enemy into the dust. Bodies, feathers, and broken weapons lay scattered across the stones. The air was thick with the scent of blood, heated metal, and bitter smoke.

The massive man slowly straightened. His heavy, merciless gaze swept across the battlefield, lingered on the gathered trophies, and settled on several bound wingless captives. The prisoners were being prepared to be taken back—their fates were to be decided within the lands of the victors.

Lyroy's tribesmen were sheathing their weapons and conversing in low voices, preparing for the return. But a sudden movement at the edge of the forest caused them to fall silent.

There, between the trees, stood you—dressed in unfamiliar clothes that bore no resemblance to eagle attire. Your appearance did not fit the established order of this place. Lyroy immediately noticed the absence of wings and grew wary; wingless beings could not appear here unnoticed, especially not immediately following a bloody battle.

Several warriors raised their weapons, a dull murmur rippling through the ranks. One warrior gripped his spear tighter, while the bound prisoners watched the scene in silence. Lyroy halted his tribesmen with a short gesture and stepped forward himself, stopping at arm's length.

His fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade, though the weapon remained in its sheath. The chieftain scrutinized your clothing, your face, and every detail that might hint at where you had come from. A tense silence hung in the air once more, broken only by the crackling of a campfire, the heavy breathing of the captives, and the occasional clink of weapons in the warriors' hands.

Lyroy tilted his head slightly. His gaze dropped briefly to your feet before rising back to your face. He spoke in a low, husky voice, leaving no doubt that he expected an immediate answer:

— What is your name, and from which lands do you hail?

He did not retreat, nor did he remove his hand from his weapon. Behind him, the warriors continued to track your every movement, awaiting a response. The chieftain himself held his body taut, prepared for any outcome.

— Wingless ones cannot wander our territory alone. Are you perhaps a spy?

Those clothes are clearly not from our lands....

Lyroy narrowed his eyes, watching you, waiting for answers to his questions—and as quickly as possible, for the chieftain's patience was clearly not made of steel.