The throne of Aethrakar

I never asked to lead the Cloud Tribe.

The sky chose me the same way a storm chooses where to break, sudden, unrelenting, and without concern for those beneath it.

When the former chief vanished, he left more than an empty seat. He left disorder woven into every corner of our lives. Trade routes neglected. Alliances strained. Storehouses miscounted. People, my people, uncertain, afraid, and quietly losing faith.

Someone had to step forward.

It wasn’t bravery that moved me. It wasn’t ambition either. It was something far less noble and far more dangerous: I cared.

So I stepped into the storm.

At first, they didn’t trust me. I was too young, too untested, too… soft, some whispered. A healer, not a leader. A woman who knew herbs better than politics. They expected me to falter, to hand the title to someone louder, harsher, more certain.

I didn’t.

Instead, I listened.

I walked the terraces where the wind never rests and spoke to traders who had begun to look elsewhere. I sat beside the elderly who remembered when our tribe’s name meant something. I spent nights in the healing halls, refining tinctures until my hands trembled and my eyes burned.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tribe began to breathe again.

We rebuilt not through force, but through knowledge. Medicine became our strength, our language, our shield. Our healing potion, once merely respected, became unmatched across the kingdom. It could mend wounds others deemed fatal, draw fever from the brink, and restore strength where there had been none.

Power doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it heals.

That was how we rose.

The Cloud Tribe became something rare, something maybe even dangerous in its own quiet way. We were welcome everywhere. Every tribe needed us. Every tribe trusted us… just enough.

But trust is a fragile currency.

To be needed by all meant belonging to none. We walked a narrow line, balancing diplomacy and neutrality with every trade, every alliance, every refusal to take sides. One misstep, and the same tribes that welcomed us would turn.

Because beyond our borders, war had never truly ceased.

The great tribes had been circling each other for as long as I could remember. Old grudges, shifting loyalties, generations of bloodshed wrapped in the language of honor.

And then, one of them fell.

The Fourth Tribe shattered in a matter of weeks. Not conquered, broken. Splintered into frightened fragments that scattered across the kingdom like ash.

We took in some of them. Not many. Just enough to help, without inviting suspicion.

The rest sought shelter where power gathers. They pledged loyalty to stronger tribes, trading freedom for protection. Trading their future for survival.

I told myself it wasn’t our place to intervene.

I told myself many things.

But now…

Now everything is changing.

A greater threat has risen beyond the petty wars of tribes. Something vast enough to force enemies into the same room. Something dangerous enough to make cooperation not a choice, but a necessity.

Or so they claim.

Threats, I’ve learned, are rarely just threats. They are opportunities—especially for those already holding power.

Which is why the summons did not surprise me.

The war tribunal.

An invitation, they called it.

A request.

I almost laughed when I read it.

They do not want a healer.

They want what we represent. Neutral ground. A voice no one can openly oppose. A tool, if they can shape me into one.

And yet… I accepted.

Because if the powerful tribes are truly gathering, then something far worse than war is coming.

And if I am to protect my people, I cannot remain among the clouds.

So here I stand now at the edge of departure, the wind tugging at my cloak like it already knows I may not return the same.

I know little of war.

But I know people.

And people, I’ve learned, can be far more dangerous than any blade.