CH770 · Rewrite
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Chapter 770: Echo and Drow Silvermoon

“What is — a chief?”

“Sounds like the head of all the clans, maybe?”

“Isn’t that the same as the Three Gods Emissary?”

The discussion spread through the crowd in waves, overlapping and uncertain. Then the head of the Black River clan — knocked back to fourth place by Osha’s rise — stepped onto the platform and raised his voice over all of it. “The king of the northern kingdom you mentioned, Roland Wimbledon — he is not a Mojin. How could he rule the entire desert?”

Here it is, Ashes thought. This was always going to be the hinge. She watched Echo from below the platform’s edge. Let’s see how she handles it.

Echo turned toward him with a quality of stillness that was not nervousness. “Were the Three Gods Emissaries who ruled the desert in the old age — were they Mojins?”

Her voice did not rise. It simply arrived at every ear, exactly as she intended.

The head of Black River opened his mouth and found the question ahead of him. “Um — well—”

“We all know the answer is no.” Echo looked past him to the crowd below. “The Three Gods Emissaries were giants. Their appearance was not uniform — one had four feet and three hands, another had more than one head. They were not Mojins by any measure.”

She let that settle for a moment.

“The words left behind by the Emissaries have become the foundational laws of all Ironsand people. The laws carved onto the slate describe two conditions for a ruler of the desert: one is to receive the blessing of the Three Gods. The other is to open up boundless oases and keep all clans free from hunger, thirst, and death. Anyone who fulfills either condition can become the ruler of the Southernmost Region.”

The crowd’s sound diminished. Nobody wanted to argue with the laws of the Three Gods Emissaries — especially not standing at the Land of Fire, where those laws had their beginning.

The head of Black River was not finished. He pointed at Echo and raised his voice again. “But the Three Gods Emissaries actually did bring green land to the desert. It’s said that a thousand years ago, this entire area was an oasis. Is the king of Graycastle capable of that? Don’t let yourselves be deceived by hollow promises. Anyone with that kind of power is no different from a deity.”

Echo nodded at him. “So if he could bring new oases to the Sand Nation — you would acknowledge His Majesty as qualified to rule the Southernmost Region and consider him worthy of the chieftaincy?”

“That’s right.” He spread his hands toward the crowd. “And I don’t speak only for myself. I believe every clan here would agree.”

He had, Ashes noted, walked directly into the space Echo had prepared for him. He had articulated the condition. He had spoken for everyone.

“His Majesty cannot transform the Southernmost Region into a green land,” Echo said. She returned to the center of the platform and spoke each word with the weight of something she had considered for a long time. “But he is willing to take our people into the territory of Graycastle and offer us homes near lakes and forests — to keep us from the threat of thirst and sandstorm forever. This is His Majesty’s promise: he will bring you a new oasis. The vast and fertile northern land is exactly the boundless oasis whose color will never fade.”

The crowd’s silence had a quality to it now that the previous silence had not. This was not the silence of people waiting to object. It was the silence of people whose comprehension was still catching up to what they had heard.

Thuram, leaning against a post at the crowd’s edge, said nothing.

This is the real purpose, he thought. This is what they came here to do.

Not just a clan takeover. Not merely reclaiming a position in Iron Sand City’s hierarchy. Everything — the duels, the legend they built around themselves, the deliberate restraint that spared opponents who should by rights have died, the reputation that had drawn every clan’s eyes and ears to this moment — all of it had been constructed to create an audience large enough to hear this speech clearly enough to carry it home to every corner of the Silver Stream Oasis.

“I agree that this place is really beautiful,” Echo said, her voice shifting into something lighter. The formal register stepped aside. She looked out at the burning landscape around the Burning Stage — the fire-trees, the underground vents, the heat rising in transparent columns. “But it would be even better without the fighting and the bloodshed. His Highness Roland said that — if it could simply remain as it is, as a place of natural wonder, it would be a famous…”

“National natural park?” Hummingbird offered, from nearby.

“Yes. That’s exactly what he said, after he saw Devil’s Town behind the snow mountain.”

“It’s fitting of a king to think exactly as I do,” Andrea said, tipping her chin up.

“Have you ever actually been to the place he was describing?” Ashes gave her a flat look.

“Whether or not I’ve been there is irrelevant. I have an excellent imagination. From his description alone, I’m certain it’s spectacular. Of course, a person of limited experience wouldn’t understand that.”

Heyy.

Thuram watched them. Whenever any of the Iron Axe group or the Divine Ladies spoke for long enough, the King of Graycastle’s name found its way into the conversation — not ostentatiously, but as a natural point of reference, the way you named a landmark to give someone else’s directions. He had been curious about Roland Wimbledon for some time. Not the king he had heard about from traveling merchants — the merchants’ version was a figure hunted by the church, associated with evil practices and dangerous women. That version did not match the man these people spoke of. Not even a little.

He turned back toward the platform.

The crowd was still processing. Some faces held skepticism; some held an almost-concealed eagerness; some held the careful neutral expression of people who would not commit until they had discussed it privately with their own people, in the dark, where it was safe to believe things.

That was enough. It did not need to be unanimity. It only needed to travel.

And below the sound of the crowd’s collective murmur, below the continuing chant of Osha, Osha that had never fully stopped since the battle ended, Thuram understood what he was standing at the edge of: something that had not happened in the Southernmost Region in living memory. Perhaps longer. A single voice, carried by the right set of ears, reaching all the way across the desert.

The Silver Stream Oasis would know about this speech before the week was out.

What they did with it after that — that was the part none of them could control yet. But the first thing had been done, and done in front of everyone who mattered, and there was no undoing it now.

He raised his empty cup toward no one in particular and drank what remained of the air.

To Osha.

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