The council hall of the cat tribe wasn't much of a hall at all—just a large cavern hollowed out beneath the hill, lit by oil lamps that flickered weakly against the stone.
Elder Mina led the way, Eryndor and his companions followed.
When they reached the center of the hall, Eryndor lifted his hand and opened his spatial ring. A moment later, the floor shuddered under a thump—then another, and another—until mountains of crates, sacks, and barrels filled the chamber.
Ten tonnes of food, meat, and vegetables spilled into organized chaos.
Mina's eyes widened, the reflection of fire dancing in her pupils.
"This… this could feed us for months," she whispered, tail trembling. "Bless the stars, you truly came to help."
Krog puffed out his chest. "Master Eryndor always delivers!"
Then, realizing how dramatic that sounded, he coughed. "Er… with mild delays sometimes."
Eryndor gave him a look but didn't deny it.
Mina's voice grew heavier as she turned toward the gathered elders around her.
"You've arrived at the right time. Of our five villages, this one is the luckiest. The others…" She paused, ears flattening. "One was discovered not long ago. We heard the Hound Tribe invaded. "
Her claws dug into the table. "We haven't heard from them since."
The hall went silent, save for the faint crackling of oil flames.
Even Eryndor, who rarely knew how to handle grave conversations, found himself unable to joke.
He nodded slowly. "We'll deliver the supplies to all the remaining villages. I don't plan to waste time. Every day counts."
Mina studied him quietly, then bowed her head in gratitude.
"Then the cat tribes of the Netherworld will remember your name, human. Eryndor, the bringer of mercy."
Eryndor scratched his cheek awkwardly. "Ah… just Eryndor's fine."
Krog muttered, "Bringer of Curses sounds better…"
---
After the discussion, Eryndor stepped out of the hall, wanting to breathe the outside air.
The faint glow of fungus lamps and crystal veins gave the village a haunting, dreamlike light.
He stopped when he spotted Elara.
The demoness was laughing softly, surrounded by children who tugged at her sleeves. She created small orbs of light with her fingers, letting the kids chase them through the air. For the first time, she wasn't hiding her smile.
Eryndor felt warmth rise in his chest.
She looks… happy.
But his gaze soon dropped to the children's worn clothes—rags stitched together with hope and threadbare patience.
His smile faded.
It's always the innocent ones who suffer first.
He turned away quietly, letting Elara enjoy the moment without interruption.
---
As he wandered through the village, he saw more of the same—tired faces, hollow eyes, bodies that worked beyond their limit. The cats moved with silent efficiency, building defenses, tending to the wounded, or salvaging broken tools.
Then something unusual caught his eye: a group of short, slender figures with furless gray skin and long noses working near the hill's base.
"They're not cats…" he murmured.
A soft voice behind him replied, "They're from the Rat Tribe."
He turned to see a graceful cat-woman standing there. Her fur was silver-white with faint blue markings that shimmered under the faint glow. She wore a miner's harness over a rough tunic, and a pickaxe hung at her waist. Despite the dirt on her fur, her golden eyes carried quiet intelligence.
"They help us build tunnels and mine the crystal veins beneath the hill," she continued, brushing dust from her cheek. "Without them, we wouldn't have survived this long. We coexist… in our own way."
Eryndor nodded. "You seem close to them."
The cat-woman smiled faintly. "Not close, perhaps… but understanding. Down here, everyone learns that survival is the only real friendship."
Her words lingered in his mind as she walked away.
---
Later, sitting on a low stone near the edge of the village, Eryndor gazed at the black horizon and thought about Raxor's confession—the vanished village, the weapon that could erase life itself, the black mist rising from a crater where homes once stood.
Did the cats really create something like that?
Could they?
He looked back at the peaceful tribe behind him—the smiling children, the old warriors repairing spears, the soft hum of life trying to continue.
And yet… something gnawed at him.
If that weapon truly exists… not all of them are as innocent as they look.
He sighed, rubbing his temple.
"There's no use worrying now," he muttered. "Let's just hope the next village is still standing."
After a few hours of rest, Eryndor, Elara, and Krog emerged from the cave, Elder Mina stood waiting near the entrance, her frail form wrapped in a thick cloak, a sealed parchment in her hand.
"This letter is for Elder Rishka of Whisperclaw Village," she said, handing it to Eryndor. "It will let them know you come as allies. They've suffered more than we have—please, help them as you helped us."
Eryndor took the letter with both hands and bowed slightly. "We'll deliver it safely, Elder Mina. Keep your people safe until we return."
Mina's whiskers twitched with a faint smile. "If the winds favor you, you'll reach them by dusk tomorrow. Beware the paths—hound scouts still roam near the western ridges."
The trio made their way out of the cave, the same way they came in, where Xaren waited beside Gronk. The four hound prisoners were seated nearby, their hands bound, muttering among themselves.
Xaren turned. "About time. I was beginning to think you'd joined the cats permanently."
Krog cracked his shoulders. "They had food. I was tempted."
Eryndor sighed, suppressing a small smile. "We move to Whisperclaw. Get the cart ready. And make sure the prisoners don't bite anyone this time."
Raxor growled quietly, "We don't bite. We maul."
Krog grinned. "Try it. I haven't stretched in an hour."
Eryndor shot them both a look. "Enough. Let's go."
With the cart loaded and Gronk snorting impatiently, the party began their journey once more. The air felt heavier, colder, as they left the safety of Mina's village behind.
Eryndor glanced at the letter tucked in his satchel and then toward the dark trail ahead. Whisperclaw awaited—and with it, perhaps, more answers about the war between the tribes.
The wheels creaked into motion, the faint echo of their departure fading into the forest mist.