The Winds of Tepr

Chapter 57

The tension in the yurt is suffocating, the air thick with the heat of the fire and the cold steel of the blades pointed at Konir and Tovak. The warriors stand poised, their eyes burning with accusation, their swords gleaming under the flickering light. Darijin, the old Kolopan shaman, looms above them, his voice dripping with venom as he levels his accusation. The sharpness in his gaze, the anger in his tone—it all cuts deep.

He raises a hand. The warriors hesitate, their blades trembling slightly as they glance at each other, uncertain. Konir meets Darijin's gaze head-on, unflinching, and speaks with a voice as calm as the snow-covered peaks outside the yurt.

"Sit, Darijin," Konir says, his tone even, almost gentle, but laced with authority. "If you believe I am guilty, if you think I killed my chieftain, my guide, then let the spirits decide. Not your blade. Not your anger. The spirits will see through me, as they see through you."

Darijin's eyes narrow, the firelight reflecting off his silver braid as he studies Konir. For a moment, the entire yurt seems to hold its breath, waiting for the elder shaman's response. Finally, with a slow movement, Darijin lowers himself to the ground, his eyes never leaving Konir's.

The warriors sheath their blades, though the tension remains palpable. Tovak, still standing, looks bewildered, unsure of what is unfolding before him. Konir gestures for him to stand back, to watch. This is no longer a matter of swords—it is a battle of spirit, and Tovak is a witness to something ancient and powerful.

From within the folds of his robes, Konir pulls out several items, his hands moving with practiced ease. He places a small, ornately carved bone onto the ground between them. Next comes a shard of crystal, its surface flickering with inner light. Finally, he retrieves a smooth, dark stone, etched with words too old to decipher by the untrained eye.

"You know what these are. I challenge you to see into my soul, as I will into yours," Konir says, his voice calm, though a flicker of something darker passes behind his eyes.

Darijin's face tightens, but he nods, accepting the challenge. From his own pouch, he pulls out his tools—a small bundle of sacred twigs, a strip of cloth soaked in the blood of a sacrifice, and a clay talisman. He lays them out carefully before him, his eyes narrowing as he settles into the ritual.

The fire crackles loudly between them, casting wild shadows on the yurt's walls. The warriors, though they keep their distance, watch intently. This is no ordinary display—this is a clash of wills, a divination of the highest order. Even they understand that the spirits will be watching.

Konir inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the cold of the mountains seep into his bones. He exhales, and as he does, the energy in the room shifts. His hands hover over the divination bone and the stone, his fingers moving in intricate, deliberate motions. He mutters softly in the old tongue, calling forth the spirits that guide him.

Darijin's hands are steady as he too begins his divination, his fingers weaving through the air, his voice a low, melodic chant that resonates with power. His talisman glows faintly in the dim light, the bloodied cloth casting a deep red hue on the floor.

As their chants grow louder, the air thickens, and the yurt seems to darken. The flames flicker wildly, casting long, erratic shadows as the spiritual energy builds. Konir's breath steadies, his mind clearing as he opens himself to the spirits. His eyes remain closed, but in his mind's eye, visions begin to take form—flashes of snow-covered landscapes, the howling of the wind, and the faint, elusive figure of something moving through the white wilderness.

Darijin's voice rises, challenging, his eyes locked on Konir's, trying to pierce through the veil of visions. His power is undeniable, but Konir stands firm. His fingers brush over the crystal, and the vision solidifies.