The village was quaint, as usual. The younglings were running around over the Northern Gateroad, playing with their zuzu balls and kicking them into small holes in the ground. Some people were buying fresh snow-wheat bread from Yariz's stall, and the smell of the fresh bread was beautiful and fragrant.

Gazmir closed the door to his house and locked it. Once the sun set, Rahzar would challenge Rahzmir, and judging from the number of hunts that Gazmir had completed with Rahzar this half a year, Rahzmir had no chance of winning.

"Naama? Naama, where are you?"

The house was neat. He knew his wife had cleaned the house recently.

"Dear?" A soothing voice responded to him from the kitchen area of the house, one room in.

Naama went out, stocky and stout, just like her husband. Her long, layered house dress with a shawl was worn with grace. Her hair was put up in a bun, but the natural curl of her brown hair showed through her side bangs that still curled like two spirals. Her eyes were kind, her smile was welcoming.

Gazmir hugged her. It was a big, warm hug that he needed the most after being exposed in the stark cold of the Stake for weeks.

"Welcome home," Naama gently said to him. Gazmir looked towards their room and removed himself from his wife's hug, softly.

"We have to pack your clothes." His face was stern. He was not a joking man, as his wife knew, but even for him this was unprecedented.

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Not we, you."

Naama grabbed his right arm hard. Gazmir looked back. He knew that Naama would not budge if she was like this, not if she did not get enough explanation.

She said to him carefully, "Is it him? The Chief's nephew?"

Gazmir nodded.

She took his hand and pulled out a chair near the dining room. "I heard that you were coming today, so I brewed some fresh tea. Drink it with some fenoshi milk."

Gazmir looked at her, but he knew that he would not get her to pack up if he did not sit. So he sat. Naama served a nice cup of Tyrngrass tea right in front of him, and steam puffed out. She took a small, table-sized milk jug made from clay and put it right next to the cup of tea, still billowing.

Gazmir took the small milk jug and poured. "Tonight, Rahzar will challenge his uncle. It's a Nil Mac'gjar."

Nil Mac'gjar. The last time Naama had heard it was fifty years ago. It was the Proving of one's Purpose, usually done peacefully through talks. Knowing Rahzar’s nature, that would not be the case.

It was going to be a duel to the death.

It would be okay if Rahzar were a merciful man. Perhaps he would take the mantle of the chief from Rahzmir and put his uncle as an advisor, which was always the wise thing to do. Razhmir won it peacefully from his father fifty years ago. He took the mantle of chief from his ailing father and became a very responsible chief. Under his leadership, Elm was finally able to erect its gates and walls, protecting this village from the beasts of the Stake.

No more was the village raided by Nhiven in the middle of blizzards, no more were the village's animals stolen by the wild wyvs. No more did the Garms stalk them from the shade of the Lowland treelines.

They were safe, and now, with the wild wyvs, wild zeefahs, quadrupedal, sheep-like herbivores that yield high-quality furs, and wild dagzans being converted into farm animals, and with how many people were successfully doing botany, even in a place as cold as this, they no longer felt the need to import vegetables or fruits from other villages like Sinu, near the lower parts of Dalmas, or Yardet, the trading village near Vellgari.

Hard times create hard men, and these selfsame hard men, the ones from his generation, were the ones responsible for Elm's condition today.

The village of Elm was thriving. But precisely because it was thriving, it was in grave danger.

"Do you think... we can still talk to him? To Rahzar? He was such a bright lad."

"That was fifteen years ago, Naama."

Naama looked down. "There must be something we can still do. I can go and..." Gazmir looked at her with sharp eyes. This was where Naama knew that her husband was deathly serious.

Gazmir stood up and went inside his room, packing his wife's clothes into a bag.

"You will take the younglings with you. Walk west for a couple of days, go with them to Sinu, and get a caravan to Vellgari. Meet with the old members of the Vanguard, ask for Ruzkan."

He gave her a small pouch full of the results of his hunt. It was heavy with silver and gold.

He looked at his wife, holding both the bag and the pouch, confused and sad.

Saylan, boy. What would you do if you were in my position?

Peace creates weakness, especially in the culture of the Nhevari Geherrim. They were made to fight in the rims of Gehenna; as outlanders, they were made to overcome challenges. And in the thriving village, there were no more challenges to be overcome. The younglings had grown accustomed to peace.

The Chief, Rahzmir, was okay with this. He and Gazmir were among the only ones in the village who fought in The Last War, five hundred years ago. Now they were already old, but back then when they were still at the peak of their performance, they were strong.

Not only strong. They were unstoppable.

Both he and Rahzmir were the ones who broke the humans' lines of armored vehicles in the midst of the hot lead and explosions that the humans were making. Back then, he could still use his Infernal Armaments, especially his greataxe, Nur'zahar, which absorbed the light and heat from the humans' sharp bullets, rendering them less damaging to their entire company.

Rahzmir's greatsword, Bael'ren, the Severing Steel, was the one responsible for severing hundreds, if not thousands, of the humans' steel tanks.

Both were the pillars of their company, the Vanguards of the Nhevari. They might not be on the same levels as the legendary companies' Diamonds or Spades of Inferno, but they were still considered one of the best.

Gazmir looked at the crystalline mirror inside the room and could only see a weakened, feeble, old warrior.

Gazmir walked towards the kitchen, shaking his head on the way. Those were the old times, the ancient times, when the Geherrim were still able to fulfill their purpose, their mac'ga, and die with dignity. Then? Then, they were forced to sit, perhaps hunt, and cook, and eat what they cooked, go on another hunt, until the moment of their death. They were forced to be disorganized, forced to live under seclusion for years, for decades.

Rahzmir's father was the one who took them in. He said that he wanted the Geherrim to know what it means to survive, to learn, to be grateful for the small things, not only living for conflict just like before. He brought the stragglers, the remnants of the war, north, and further north, and even further north. Towards the bitter cold. Towards the New Rim of Nhevar on the outskirts of the land, guarding, on an immortal vigil so that people would not foolishly go there and die from the cold, just like before, just like in Gehenna.

They found the frozen elm, and subsequently they found the geyser surrounding the tree as well. They set the first stone and dug the well. They set their first perimeter and told the younger males to stand guard there. They built their first watchtowers and taught the younger females to nock their bows and shoot their arrows.

This was their first Nhevari Vigil, in these frozen, forsaken lands. And they were its guardians.

But now a Geherrim wanted to turn this peace upside down. Rahzar was far stronger than his uncle, far stronger. Gazmir knew how strong they had been back then; Rahzar, however, sat on another level entirely. He was not armed or blessed with Infernal Armaments; his greatsword was forged by his own hand. The sheath was made from the bones of a Drenitar he killed with his bare hands as a youngling, the hilt from the finest Steelpine he felled himself, and the blade from the severed tailbone of a Zyneios he found while hunting another, younger Nhiven years ago.

To say that Rahzar was blessed was an understatement. Perhaps he was born under a great star for the Geherrim, or perhaps he was blessed by one of the Seven Lords themselves.

The harsh life on this land, combined with their inability to use their Gehennic magic, forced the younger generation to adapt, and through this process of adaptation, the ones who refused to be coddled by the peaceful, warm life inside the village turned out to be like Rahzar and his party.

Fierce.
Violent.
Cruel.

He sat. "I have told Dazun that you and the younglings are coming. He told me that he will send a couple of guards with you, at least halfway towards Sinu. You will be safe once you get to the Lowlands. Just follow Dalmas."

Naama studied her husband, now seated with his head down, unsure what else to do. She stepped forward and dropped the bag in his lap.

"I am their teacher, dear. And throughout all my teachings, they have proven themselves to be quick-witted and sharp beyond belief."

She continued, "All of them understood that peace is much better than war. All of them understood that it is better to be bored than to be in pain."

"Especially that kid. The one that people told me to avoid."

Gazmir looked at her in silence. Sol was gone; he did not have the heart to break it to his wife.

"Of everyone in this village, he is the one who knows how it feels to be in constant pain. He has grown accustomed to it."

Gazmir looked towards himself in the reflection of the blue-yellow tea inside his cup. He was responsible for it, he was not able to stop Rahzar from sending that kid towards Western Ridge. The Nhiven might have gotten to him now.

"He's strong, you know. That boy, Solrith."

Gazmir looked up towards his wife that was currently sitting right across from his chair, smiling towards him. Easing his guilt, just a little.

"Naama, how do you..."

"Gazmir." His wife's voice was stern. "He was cursed at birth and he persevered for fifteen years. Do you think he will die from mere cold of the north?"

As if she knew what he was thinking, she stood from her chair, walked back to the stove, and lit the crystal with a small flame from her fingers, remnants of Gehennic magick. She took a bigger soup pot and started to fill it with water.

"Tonight's dinner is Wyvtail Soup, your favorite."

She crouched a bit to see whether the flames lit correctly underneath the pot. The small, square plates started to emit orange-reddish glow.

"The glowbrick will deplete soon, dear. Can you get more from Dazun's wife?"

Dazun.

Gazmir opened his eyes wide. He knew what to do to stop Rahzar. He would have to subdue Rahzar first before the Nil Mac'gjar was declared.