Suren was taken aback by Tinkwick's sudden eagerness. The gnome practically snatched the design scrolls from his hands before Suren could secure them back into his chest.
"Why are you so worked up?" Suren asked, arching an eyebrow as he gingerly reclaimed the drawings and returned them to their wooden case.
"You idiot!" Tinkwick barked, giving him a swift thump on the head.
"Hey!"
"Don't you get it?" the gnome hissed, eyes wide with manic excitement. "This tower produces pure Ethos—pure, Suren! That means anyone can use it. I'm this close to understanding my Mark. If I can harvest Ethos from your design, I might finally gain my second Mark. That'd put me in range to beat my demon!"
Suren rubbed the sore spot on his head with a wince. "Alright, alright… we'll build it."
Tinkwick did a triumphant little shimmy, grinning from ear to ear.
"But there's just one problem," Suren added, raising a hand. "How exactly do we build a nine-story star-aligned purification tower in the middle of a nomad camp with zero materials or tools?"
That stopped Tinkwick cold.
The gnome opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked a few times, and then scowled. "We'll… figure something out," he muttered.
He tugged Suren to his feet. "Come on. It's almost noon—you're lucky the Grest eat breakfast mid-morning. There might still be food left."
Suren blinked. He was the last one out of bed.
Stepping out of the yurt, the scene that met him was a whirlwind of activity. The flocks of colsh and gorgs had been taken out to graze. At the central clearing—where the tribal dance had taken place the night before—warriors were training bare-chested under the sun, their muscles gleaming with sweat as they sparred with wooden poles or traded punches. Off to the side, archers practiced near a line of hay-stuffed targets.
To Suren's surprise, Rickon was among them, shirtless and barefoot, already dressed in nomad-style clothing. He laughed as he clashed poles with another youth, moving with sharp focus and ease. Somehow, in less than a day, he'd embedded himself into their warrior ranks.
"You're finally awake," came Mi'isa's warm voice behind him. She stepped up beside him, hands on her hips. "There's some broth left. I'll give it to you with some bread and warm milk. I left fresh leathers by your bedroll—change out of those filthy clothes once you wash at the pond."
"Thank you," Suren said with genuine gratitude.
Back inside the yurt, he found the rolled bundle beside his bedding—simple but well-made clothing in Grest style. Grabbing them, he made his way to the pond. By now, it was empty—everyone else had long finished their morning routine.
The water was cool and clear, fed by the plateau's waterfall. He stripped down, scrubbing himself with a rough leather cloth until the grime of travel and fear finally lifted. The new clothes fit comfortably, the leather soft and well-oiled, the woven shirt dyed a rich earthy red. He bundled up his dusty miner's clothes and returned to the yurt.
As promised, Mi'isa had a bowl of steaming broth waiting. She handed it to him with a chunk of coarse bread and a wooden cup of warm milk.
Suren sat near the fire, eating slowly, the taste of spice and marrow settling his still-nervous stomach.
Suddenly, the tent flap flew open—and Tinkwick stormed in, dragging a breathless, sweat-soaked Ti'chan behind him.
"Suren!" the gnome huffed, eyes gleaming with excitement. "I have an idea."
"What?" Suren asked, mouth half-full, a bit of bread poking from the corner of his lips.
"Is it true you've got a profession?" Ti'chan asked, eyes practically glowing.
"Mhm." Suren nodded and swallowed hard. "Yes. But… it's not a combat class."
"That doesn't matter. Come with me." Ti'chan motioned quickly, not waiting for a reply. "Professions are rare on the Broken Plains. You outlanders have all the relics, altars, and stones—you own the paths to awakening. That's one of the things that makes the Grand Tribes powerful: they've managed to hold onto methods to awaken Professionals. But most medium or large tribes? They're lucky to have one or two."
Intrigued, Suren followed, still chewing, with Tinkwick hustling behind them.
Ti'chan led them through the camp, down a narrow game trail into a wide clearing surrounded by gnarled old trees. Here, warriors trained with their Greste—the powerful tribal beasts with horned faces and grey skin. Off to the side, riderless Greste snorted and stomped. A few young ones—barely the size of donkeys—chased each other clumsily.
At the center of it all was Chief In'ang, seated atop a massive Greste unlike any other. It had a spiked tail and thick fur ridged along its spine. In'ang's muscles gleamed with sweat, and his glaive spun through the air with breathtaking precision. He fended off three elite warriors at once, each mounted and attacking from different angles. Despite the odds, he remained unshaken—beast and rider in perfect unison.
They waited quietly as the sparring continued. Finally, In'ang halted and dismounted, grabbing a leather pouch and pouring water over his mouth and beard, exhaling heavily.
"What is it?" he asked in a voice that rumbled like thunder, his smile sharp and heavy with authority.
Ti'chan stepped forward.
"Reporting, Chief. One of the outlanders, Suren—he claims he has a Profession."
At that, In'ang paused.
The air stilled.
He looked Suren up and down, then asked in a quieter voice, "Are you certain, boy?"
Suren nodded, hurriedly swinging his wooden chest off his back. He pulled out the rolled leathers and handed them to In'ang, who accepted them carefully.
"My profession is Designer," Suren said quickly. "This is my first Drawing. I made it last night."
In'ang said nothing. The drawings didn't glow with words as they had for Suren, but the faint shimmer of the lines—subtle, starlit architecture—told him this was no ordinary blueprint.
He raised a hand, silencing Suren.
"Ou'ang," he called to one of his warriors, "take over the training."
Then, turning to Suren, he said, "Follow me."
He mounted his Greste, and the others followed him deeper into the woods. The beast's thunderous steps echoed against the forest floor. After nearly a hundred meters, they stopped by a boulder encircled by low ferns.
In'ang dismounted, allowing his Greste to graze.
He turned to face Suren, arms crossed over his broad chest.
"Alright. Why are you telling me this?"
Tinkwick gave Suren a nudge, forcing him to step forward.
"For the Drawing's power to awaken," Suren began, voice steadier than he felt, "it has to be built. Physically. Every floor, every pole—it has to match the original design exactly."
He took a breath, gesturing to both himself and Tinkwick.
"But we can't build it alone."
In'ang's brow furrowed.
"So… you want my tribe's help?"
Suren nodded.
In'ang let the silence linger before he spoke again.
"There's a problem," he said finally. "This is a building. We are nomads. We don't stay in one place long enough to raise walls, much less towers. We have no bricklayers or masons. That's the first thing."
He stepped closer, voice low.
"The second… is trust. You two may be decent outlanders, but you are still outlanders. It was your kind who brought the Abyss to our lands, whether knowingly or not. Now you say this tower can purify what even our tribal beast cannot?"
He held up the leathers again, studying them.
"Even if I believe you… why should I commit my people to this?"
Suren looked down, then raised his eyes—focusing on the chief's intense stare.
"You guys are nomads but based on my understanding you generally travel the same routes with the tower built your people can have a more secure resting area," Suren said
"Not enough," In'ang replied curtly.
Tinkwick stepped forward, his tone softer.
"Chief. This tower creates pure Ethos. The kind anyone can use, your warriors even your tribal beast could use it."
In'ang looked at him closed his eyes, and another long silence passed. Finally, In'ang looked down at the blueprint one last time….then rolled it up and handed it back.
"I'll consider it."
Then, over his shoulder as he mounted again.
"But if we do this, Suren… then your tower belongs to the Grest too."
In'ang rode ahead, his Greste's heavy strides fading into the distance. Suren, Tinkwick, and Ti'chan walked in silence beneath the dappled canopy of the trees. The chirping of birds and rustling of leaves filled the quiet between them—until the distant sounds of the nomad camp returned: laughter, fires crackling, children shouting in the distance.
Suren glanced at Ti'chan, his brow furrowed.
"Do you think your chief will agree to it?"
Ti'chan looked thoughtful, his face unreadable for a moment.
"The Chief may have seemed harsh," he finally said, "but I know he's just as excited as I am. A Professional in the tribe—especially one who builds—could change everything. If you were Igin, he'd have said yes on the spot. But with outlanders…" He trailed off, shrugging. "He'll speak with the tribe elders first. That's how things are done."
Inside the Elder Yurt
Within the second-largest yurt of the Grest tribe, the air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and dried pine. In'angsat cross-legged on a fur mat, still sweaty from training. Before him, seated across low cushions, were three elders—two women and a man. Their garments were meticulously made, leather and wool adorned with bone trinkets, feathers, and carved charms. One of them was the old man who had driven the carriage beside Mi'isa.
"That's the situation," In'ang said. "So—what do you think? Should we help the outlanders build this tower?"
The silence stretched.
Finally, the woman on the left spoke, her voice calm and pragmatic.
"If what the boy says is true, the tower could bring great benefit to the tribe. A steady source of Ethos—usable by anyone? That's no small claim. But… are these outlanders trustworthy?"
"They are not," snapped the second elder, the older woman at the center. Her tone was brittle, lined with old scars. "We should take the designs and build the tower ourselves. Partner with a trusted Grand Tribe if we must. There's no need to tie our fate to outlander whims."
The third elder, the old man, spoke next—his voice slower, but steady.
"That would make us no different than the outlanders we resent. These young ones, they were raised here—on the Broken Plains. They know what it is to be cut off, to survive like we do. And they came to us with open hands, not clenched fists. Their blood may not be Grest, but this land is as much theirs as it is ours."
He looked pointedly at the other elders.
"They are not yet tainted by the hatred of their ancestors. If we help them build now, we forge ties to Professionals while they are still humble—before power twists them."
Silence followed his words. Then, slowly, the female elder who had spoken first gave a nod.
He turned to In'ang. "We help them."
In'ang rose to his feet. He bowed deeply to the three elders, then walked to the center of the room and used a wooden stick to extinguish the bowl of burning herbs. The conversation was over.
That Evening
Suren sat quietly near the central firepit, surrounded by music, drumming, and dance. Mi'isa passed him a second helping of stew, but the food sat untouched in his bowl. Rickon was talking beside him—about training with the Grest warriors, about how sore he was, about how the Greste babies tried to chew on his boots—but Suren wasn't listening.
His mind was elsewhere. Waiting.
The fire cracked loudly, snapping him out of his thoughts. He blinked. Rickon had gone quiet. The flames no longer cast light in front of him.
Someone was standing there.
Suren looked up.
It was In'ang.
The chief stared down at him, massive and immovable. Suren stood quickly, accidentally tipping his bowl and spilling stew on his tunic. He didn't notice.
Hope rose in his chest like a flame.
In'ang held his gaze, then gave a single nod.
"We start tomorrow."
He turned without another word and walked back into the shadows, the firelight reflecting briefly off the spikes on his armor.
Suren stood motionless for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, he bowed deeply to the Chief's departing figure, his voice barely a whisper.
"Thank you."