Sigora leaned back in her seat, the motion making the cushions beneath her compress significantly.

"In the immediate term, very little.

You don't travel alone, because there are always going to be people who think they can improve their status by killing you or capturing you. And you become aware, at all times, that you are now a significant piece on the political board."

"A piece that everyone's watching," Ski'ra added quietly.

"The question everyone's asking themselves is what Jorghan will do next. Will he challenge other patriarchs? Will he attempt to build his own clan? Will he serve as Sigora's weapon, or will he eventually seek independence?"

"And we're not answering that question for them," Sarhita said, and there was something almost like approval in her liquid gold eyes. "Which is both wise and frustrating. The clans would prefer clarity. Ambiguity is harder to plan for."

"Ambiguity is strategic," Sigora corrected.

"Let them wonder. Let them speculate. Let them worry about what Jorghan might do, rather than knowing exactly what he will do. That uncertainty is worth more than a hundred warriors."

Jorghan absorbed this, turning it over in his mind like a stone he was trying to understand the shape of.

"So I'm a threat because of what I might do, not because of what I've actually done."

"Exactly," Sarhita said.

Swana then sighed heavily and said, "Enough with the serious talk. He can deal with all of them if they come at me, but I doubt they will even dare raise their voice against my little cousin."

Jorghan nodded. "Exactly, I can take on all twelve of them."

Sik'ra made an annoyed expression, "You are supposed to be modest about it. Don't bloat yourself."

Swana smiled. "Why? It's true only. He has the power to back up his words."

Sik'ra sighed, shaking his head.

Scarlett chuckled, seeing Jorghan and the siblings. She had become accustomed to all these elves and the desert.

Swana said, "When Mother told us about what you did, we were so shocked. But hearing and seeing are different things."

"I'm still me," Jorghan replied, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true anymore.

"Are you?" Sik'ra leaned forward, his expression curious rather than challenging.

"Because the stories we're hearing—about wings made of blood, about cutting El'ran in half with a single strike, about transforming into an eight-foot-tall elf and burning the ground beneath your feet—those don't sound like the cousin we knew."

"I didn't know you had that in you," Swana added.

"We knew you were strong—Mother's been training you since you were ten. But this? This is beyond anything we imagined."

Jorghan shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't plan it. The transformation just... happened. When I was pushed far enough, when survival required it, my bloodline responded."

"Your father's bloodline," Swana said quietly.

"Uncle Ser'gu's legacy. Mother told us about him, about what he was capable of. She said he was the strongest being she'd ever known, that even dragons respected him."

"I don't think anyone knew what I was capable of until it manifested."

Sik'ra whistled low.

"Eight feet four inches. That's taller than Mother and the two of us. And the power to match—cutting through El'ran like he was nothing."

"He wasn't nothing," Jorghan said firmly.

"El'ran was incredibly powerful. He was certainly a highly skilled warrior, with techniques I'd never seen and control over his abilities that I can't match even now. If I hadn't transformed, he would have killed me."

"But you did transform," Swana pointed out.

"That's what matters. You accessed a power that most people thought was extinct and became something out of legend. Do you understand what that means?"

"It means I'm a target," Jorghan said flatly.

"It means everyone who fears the return of the Berserk Lords is going to come after me. It means the Empire's hunters will escalate their efforts. It means—"

"It means you're family," Swana interrupted, her voice carrying warmth despite her warrior's bearing.

"It means you're one of us, fully and completely. Not just the boy Mother raised, but our actual blood cousin. Ser'gu's son. That connection matters."

Sik'ra nodded in agreement.

"We never met Uncle Ser'gu. He was killed, and we weren't even aware of it until Mother told us. Mother told us stories—about how he protected the clan, how he stood against threats that should have destroyed us, how he loved fiercely and fought fiercer. She said losing him was like losing half her soul."

"I wish I'd known him more," Jorghan said quietly.

"I have some memories—fragments, impressions—but nothing substantial. Just the certainty that he was important, that he was powerful, and that he loved me."

"He did," Sigora said.

"He loved you more than anything in this world or any other."

She moved to sit beside Jorghan, her presence both comforting and overwhelming. "He was right. You are changing everything. Just by existing, just by surviving, you're shifting the balance of power in ways that will echo for generations."

"I don't want to change everything," Jorghan protested.

"I just want to live, to figure out who I am, to—"

"To have a normal life?" Sigora smiled sadly.

"That was never going to be possible for you, son. Not with your bloodline. Not with your heritage. The moment Ser'gu became the Berserk Monarch, normalcy became impossible for his descendants."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of legacy and expectation pressing down on the space.

"This heat," Sik'ra said suddenly, apparently deciding to change the subject.

"How do the red elves stand it? I've been in the Brownhill Dunes for five days, and I'm still not adjusted. The desert just radiates heat like a furnace."

"You get used to it," Jorghan said, grateful for the shift in conversation.

"Or you learn to manage it with magic. The Nuwe'rak have techniques for regulating body temperature that make the heat more bearable."

"I'd rather just leave," Sik'ra muttered.

"Give me the forests or the mountains any day. This desert living is not for me."

"You're soft," Swana teased.

"A little heat and you're complaining like a child."

"A little heat?" Sik'ra gestured toward the window, where heat shimmer was visible even in the late afternoon.

"It's like standing in a furnace. I don't know how anyone survives here long-term."

"Adaptation," Jorghan replied.

"And accepting that some discomfort is just part of life. The Nuwe'rak have been here for thousands of years. They've learned to not just survive but thrive in conditions that would kill most people."

"Speaking of the Nuwe'rak," Swana said, her tone shifting to something more serious.

"What's your relationship with them now? You bonded with the patriarch's daughter, killed an ancient patriarch who challenged you, and revealed yourself as the Berserk Lord's heir. That's a lot of political weight."

Sarhita looked down; a deep red blush crossed her cheeks.

"I don't know," Jorghan admitted.

"Sarhita and I are... together. Genuinely together, not just the lie we started with. But the clan's response to everything else—to what I am, what I can do—I'm not sure how they feel about that."

"They're terrified and awed in equal measure," Sigora said matter-of-factly.

"Which is appropriate. You should inspire both responses."

There was a pause in the conversation as everybody just stared at something, lost in thought.

Then Sarhita stood up.

"We're heading to the settlement," Sarhita announced.

"There's a council meeting to discuss... recent events. They've requested Jorghan's presence, and I thought it would be good for Scarlett to see more of this world."

"A council meeting," Jorghan repeated, his tone making it clear he knew what that meant.

"They want to formally acknowledge what happened. Make it official."

"Among other things," Sarhita confirmed.

"There are also matters of alliance, of how the Nuwe'rak position themselves now that you've revealed your heritage. Politics, basically."

"I hate politics," Jorghan muttered.

"You'd better get used to it," Swana said, standing and stretching her considerable frame.

"Being the Berserk Monarch's heir means politics, whether you want it or not. Every clan, every faction, every power structure is going to want to position itself relative to you."

"Wonderful," Jorghan said without enthusiasm.

He stood as well, looking at Sarhita. "How formal is this council meeting? Do I need to dress up, or can I go as I am?"

"You're fine," Sarhita assured him.

"Though maybe wash some of the training dust off first. You look like you've been wrestling Sik'ra in the sand."

"We did spar earlier," Sik'ra admitted with a grin.

"He's gotten faster. Still can't beat me, but faster."

"You caught me off guard once," Jorghan corrected.

"That's not the same as beating me."

"Keep telling yourself that, cousin."

They prepared to leave, Jorghan taking a few minutes to clean up and change into fresh clothes—simple, practical garments that wouldn't mark him as trying too hard while still being respectful. Scarlett watched the easy interaction between him and Sigora's children with something like longing, perhaps wishing she had that kind of familial connection.

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