Chapter 74: Brownhill Dunes
"It’s beautiful," he said quietly and meant it.
Sarhita smiled, genuine pleasure lighting her features.
"My ancestors chose well. The Jaruna may seem small most of the year, but its source is deep underground springs that never fail. We’ve built our entire culture around this place—it’s not just our home, it’s our heart."
They entered the settlement through a natural gap in the rock formations and immediately drew attention.
Pale red-skinned elves emerged from dwellings and workshops, their liquid gold or polished amber eyes fixing on the newcomer with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.
All were tall—seven feet seemed the standard—and carried themselves with the unconscious grace of a people who’d never known anything but their own physical perfection.
Jorghan, at just over six feet with his mixed heritage, felt conspicuously short and different. His human-elf blood marked him as other, and he could read the assessment in every gaze that fell upon him.
Not quite rejection, but definitely not acceptance either.
He let his posture relax, kept his hands visible, offered slight nods of acknowledgment to those who stared.
Basic diplomacy, the kind Sigora had drilled into him during their years together.
You can kill anything in this world, she’d told him once, but you can’t build a life by killing everything that looks at you wrong.
"Sarhita!"
A commanding voice cut through the gathering murmur of the crowd.
"Sarhita, is that you?"
An older pale red-skinned elf pushed through the gathering crowd—though "older" was relative, Jorghan realized.
The man looked perhaps fifty by human standards, though the depth of his liquid gold eyes suggested centuries of accumulated experience. He was taller even than most of the Nuwe’rak, nearly seven and a half feet, with shoulders that spoke of physical power and bearing that radiated authority.
"Father!" Sarhita’s composure cracked, genuine emotion flooding her voice as she rushed forward.
They embraced, and Jorghan looked away, giving them a moment of privacy.
He used the opportunity to study the settlement more carefully, noting the strategic placement of dwellings, the sophisticated irrigation systems that channeled water from the river to terraced gardens, and the workshops where craftspeople worked metal and stone with techniques that blended magic and mundane skill.
This was not a primitive people living in isolation.
This was a sophisticated civilization that had chosen seclusion and that had refined their way of life over millennia until it achieved a kind of perfection.
And he’d just walked into the middle of it, carrying secrets that could shatter worlds.
"Father, this is Jorghan," Sarhita said, drawing him back to the moment.
"He saved my life. Rescued me from the Nue’roka guards who were trying to force me to leave with them."
The patriarch’s golden eyes fixed on Jorghan with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
This was not just a casual assessment—this was a powerful being examining him on multiple levels simultaneously.
Jorghan felt the brush of magical perception against his defenses, subtle probes testing his strength, his nature, and his potential threat level.
He didn’t resist, but he didn’t allow full access either.
Let the patriarch see a capable fighter, someone with significant magical ability but not the full terrifying scope of what lurked beneath the surface. Let him see enough to respect, but not enough to fear.
The blood-red dot pulsed, and he felt the system’s protective protocols engaging, carefully masking the true depth of his [Seven Star Blood Deviant] status, hiding the volatile potential of him.
[Defensive Protocols: Active]
[Presenting Power Level: Mid-tier Battle Mage equivalent]
[Actual Power Level: REDACTED]
After a long moment, the patriarch withdrew his magical perception and bowed—a gesture of respect that seemed to surprise the gathered crowd.
Though his clan members looked at him as if he were some pest, an outsider, the Patriarch looked at him as the savior he was.
"Young Jorghan, I am Kal’tun, Patriarch of the Nuwe’rak clan and father to Sarhita. You have my profound gratitude for returning my daughter safely." His voice carried the weight of absolute sincerity.
"The Nue’roka had her under guard for three weeks, and I had begun to fear I would never see her again."
"She deserves her freedom," Jorghan said simply.
"No one should be forced into a marriage they don’t want."
Kal’tun’s expression flickered with something that might have been pain or regret.
"You speak truth, young one, though truth and political necessity often find themselves at odds. But come—we should not stand in the sun discussing such matters. Let us move to my dwelling, and you can tell me exactly what transpired."
They moved through the settlement, and Jorghan became aware of whispers following in their wake.
News traveled fast, it seemed, and speculation even faster.
By the time they reached Kal’tun’s residence—a spacious dwelling carved into and around a massive stone outcropping overlooking the river—half the clan probably knew some version of events.
The patriarch’s home was both elegant and practical, with furnishings that spoke of craftsmanship refined over generations. Cool air flowed through cleverly designed ventilation shafts. Water burbled somewhere in the background, a natural feature incorporated into the architecture. Woven tapestries depicting the clan’s history covered stone walls that would otherwise have been austere.
They settled into comfortable seating arranged around a low table, and servants—younger clan members, Jorghan guessed—brought refreshments. Cool water flavored with refreshments, flatbread still warm, and fruits Jorghan didn’t recognize but that tasted of honey and citrus.
Sarhita told her story with the precision of someone who’d been trained in formal recitation.
The attempt to force himself on her, the weeks of captivity, and the transport that Jorghan had interrupted. She left out no details that might be relevant, and Kal’tun’s expression grew progressively darker as she spoke.
"El’ran goes too far," he said finally, his voice carefully controlled but vibrating with suppressed anger.
"He claims ancient precedent, invokes traditions that predate even our clan’s settlement here, but this—taking my daughter without my consent, transporting her against her will—this crosses into something that can only be called kidnapping."
"He believes he has your consent," Sarhita said quietly.
"The promise you made him, Father. At the gathering of clans a few weeks ago."
Kal’tun’s face went very still.
"You know about that."
"Everyone knows about it," she replied, no accusation in her voice, just weary acceptance.
"The elders talk. The stories spread. You promised El’ran that if he supported our claim to the northern waterways, you would consider a marriage alliance."
"Consider," Kal’tun emphasized.
"Not agree. Not commit. Consider."
"To El’ran, consideration and commitment are the same thing," Sarhita said.
"He’s seven hundred years old, Father. He’s used to getting what he wants, and he’s patient enough to wait out anyone who disagrees."
Before Kal’tun could respond, a commotion arose from outside—shouts, the sound of many footsteps, and a sense of sudden tension that permeated the dwelling like a physical force.
The patriarch was on his feet instantly, moving toward the entrance with speed that belied his apparent age.
Jorghan and Sarhita followed, and what they saw made Jorghan frown.
A delegation was approaching through the settlement, and there was no mistaking their identity. These were pale red-skinned elves like the Nuwe’rak, but their eyes were polished amber rather than liquid gold, and they carried themselves with an arrogance that set them apart.
The Nue’roka clan had come calling.
Jorghan wondered how they were able to reach this fast, and he was sure why they had come as he turned to see Sarhita.
At their head walked an elf who could only be El’ran himself.
Ancient beyond measure, but appearing no older than his mid-sixties by human standards, he moved with the confidence of someone who’d outlived empires and saw mortal concerns as temporary inconveniences. His polished amber eyes fixed on Kal’tun’s dwelling with unerring accuracy.
"This is bad," Sarhita breathed beside Jorghan.
"Father, he’s come himself. He never comes himself unless—"
"Unless he means to enforce his will," Kal’tun finished grimly.
He straightened, his bearing shifting into something formal and rigid. "Stay behind me, both of you. Let me handle this."
But Jorghan could see the tension in the patriarch’s shoulders and could read the concern beneath his commanding presence.
Whatever was about to happen, Kal’tun wasn’t confident of the outcome.
The delegation stopped before the dwelling, and El’ran stepped forward.
Up close, Jorghan could better appreciate the sheer presence of the ancient elf. Power radiated from him like heat from a forge—not the wild, barely controlled fury, but something refined and focused through centuries of mastery.
This was a being who’d forgotten more about magic and combat than most practitioners would ever learn.
[Threat Assessment: Mid-levels of Nine-star]
Jorghan watched the elf with a narrowed gaze. He was a nine-star, but the aura he gave off was completely different from Hawkin or anyone else he had seen of the nine stars.
"Kal’tun," El’ran’s voice was surprisingly pleasant, almost grandfatherly.
"I trust you received my messages regarding the agreed-upon marriage timeline."
"I received demands, not messages," Kal’tun replied carefully.