The Five Tribes

Chapter 1 — The Five Tribes

For centuries, the western lands had known only one law: the law of strength.

Kings rose and fell. Cities were burned, rebuilt, and burned again. Armies crossed the plains beneath banners stained with blood.

But no kingdom had ever frightened the people of the West as much as the kingdom of Varek.

Its ruler, known as the Iron Lord, had conquered kingdom after kingdom until only a handful of free lands remained. His armies were endless, his soldiers merciless, and his ambition seemed to have no limit.

Yet beyond his borders lived five tribes that had never bowed to any king.

They were known as the Five Warrior Tribes.

Each tribe possessed its own ancient traditions, weapons, and fighting techniques. Their warriors trained from childhood, carrying the knowledge of generations before them.

For hundreds of years, the five tribes had fought one another over territory, honor, and ancient grudges.

They had never stood together.

Until the Iron Lord came.

One winter morning, a messenger reached the council of the tribes.

He carried a broken sword.

It belonged to a warrior who had been sent to defend the western border.

The messenger fell to his knees before the tribal leaders.

“Varek has crossed the Black River,” he whispered. “His army is coming.”

Silence filled the hall.

An old warrior slowly stood.

“How many?”

The messenger looked at him with terrified eyes.

“Too many.”

For the first time in their history, the five tribes understood the truth.

If they continued fighting each other, none of them would survive.

That night, beneath a sky filled with red clouds, the five tribal leaders made a decision that would change their world forever.

They would unite.

Not as friends.

Not as brothers.

But as warriors facing a common enemy.

The war lasted seven years.

The plains became battlefields. Rivers turned dark with blood. Entire villages disappeared beneath the flames.

The warriors of the five tribes fought side by side, learning to trust those they had once considered enemies.

Among them were five young warriors whose names would later become legends.

Azo.

Jlin.

Damiro.

Thomar.

Jaluk.

They fought in different armies, beneath different banners, with different weapons.

They did not yet know one another.

But fate had already begun to bring their paths together.

The final battle came at the Gates of Varek.

The Iron Lord stood upon the walls of his fortress, watching the armies of the five tribes approach.

He laughed.

“You needed five tribes to defeat one king?”

The answer came from thousands of warriors charging across the battlefield.

The battle lasted three days.

On the third night, the gates finally fell.

By sunrise, the Iron Lord was dead.

His banners were torn from the walls.

His armies scattered.

And for the first time in generations, the western lands were free.

The five tribes had won.

But victory brought a question far more dangerous than war.

Who would rule the land they had conquered together?

At first, the leaders promised peace.

Then came arguments.

Then accusations.

Then threats.

Each tribe believed its warriors had sacrificed more than the others.

Each believed it deserved the throne.

Within a year, the alliance began to collapse.

Within two years, the Five Tribes were at war again.

The new war was worse than the first.

There was no foreign enemy to unite them.

Brother fought brother.

Former allies became assassins.

Villages changed hands every season.

The people began to fear that the Iron Lord had never truly been defeated.

His empire was gone, but his greatest legacy remained:

The Five Tribes had learned how to destroy one another.

After many years, the warriors became exhausted.

The fields could no longer feed the armies.

The villages were nearly empty.

The elders finally understood that another year of war could destroy all five tribes.

So they climbed the ancient mountains of Thaqru, the longest mountain range in the region.

There, far above the kingdoms and armies, lived an old man known simply as the Mountain Sage.

He had watched generations of warriors rise and disappear.

When the five leaders finally stood before him, they demanded an answer.

“Who should rule the Five Lands?”

The sage remained silent for a long time.

Then he looked at each leader.

“You have already tried armies.”

No one answered.

“You have tried alliances.”

Silence.

“You have tried blood.”

The sage turned toward the mountains.

“And blood has failed you.”

He then offered them a different choice.

“One warrior from each tribe.”

The leaders looked at one another.

“The strongest warrior of each tribe will enter the Kroza Forest.”

Several elders immediately protested.

Kroza was not an ordinary forest.

It was a place where entire hunting parties disappeared.

A place where even experienced warriors refused to travel after sunset.

The sage continued.

“They will enter together.”

“They will fight.”

“They will survive.”

“And whoever walks out of Kroza will decide which tribe has earned the right to rule.”

One of the leaders frowned.

“And if none of them returns?”

The sage finally smiled.

“Then perhaps your people were never meant to have a ruler.”

Far away, beneath the banners of five different tribes, five warriors were about to receive the same command.

Azo.

Jlin.

Damiro.

Thomar.

Jaluk.

None of them knew what waited inside Kroza.

None of them knew that the forest had been silent for centuries for a reason.

And none of them knew that the greatest enemy waiting for them might not be another warrior.

It might be something that had been there long before the Five Tribes were born.

The next morning, the five warriors would enter the forest.

Only one was expected to return.