The sun was sinking below the horizon, red as a drop of fresh blood. Tuketu tracked its progress expectantly, his hands clasped behind his back, his back straight as a board. For the best part of half an hour he’d stood there, unmoving, letting the redness wash over him and all about him. His eyes were stern and narrowed.

The Chief was late.

On the horizon, there was a dot. It grew larger as the minutes passed, blotting and expanding until shapes could be seen, shadowed at this angle, backlit crimson. It was a team of Hunters returning from a trip.

The Chief was at the forefront. Half of him was the sunset’s fresh blood, half of him was stained a darker color. Dried blood, older stuff. Not his. He made a few gestures and the rest of the Hunters dispersed, dragging along the corpses of a few Sandwolves. Tuketu crossed his arms. There’d be fresh meat tonight. It was a small consolation. It took another minute for the Chief to reach his tent. If he had any reaction to Tuketu’s presence he didn’t show it.

“Tuketu,” he said, his voice smooth as ever. “You’re here.”

The Chief was a precise man who kept precise times; the sandwolves must’ve put up an extraordinary resistance to keep him so.

“So I am,” said Tuketu with a smile. He gestured to the door flaps. “I was beginning to doubt if you would be, old friend. Shall we?”

The Chief nodded. He did not apologize for his lateness; he never apologized. Besides, the tribe ran on an unwritten rule: the Chief was never late. Everyone else was simply early. They went in.

Chief Rust wore a vest of harsh animal hide. It bore the brunt of the blood, and he shed it like a snake shed its second skin. Then he cracked the bones along his back in one slow stretch. His head swiveled to meet Tuketu’s.

“You know why I’ve called you here,” he said, his voice clipped.

“I don’t,” smiled Tuketu. “I’ve long since given up pretending to know you. But I can hazard a likely guess.”

He rubbed his chin. “This concerns the Io boy, doesn’t it?”

“Among our newest Chosen,” grunted the Chief. He settled down on a chair of aged bone. “Promoted with Tocho’s recommendation. He’s had nothing but praise for the boy. And you know Tocho. He hoards compliments like Hu hoards trinkets.”

With one hand, he poured out a drink.

“So?” said Tuketu.

“Io is now also the apprentice of the Alchemist,” said the Chief. He took a small gulp, wiped off his mouth with a cloth. It looked comical in his blood-stained hands. “Hu could hardly stop gushing about him last Elders’ meeting. It’s only been a week, yet he’s taken quite a liking to the boy.”

“Hu’s taken quite a liking to money,” said Tuketu dryly.

“Regardless. In the days since, the boy's emptied half the Tribe’s pockets,” shot the Chief. His eyes were cold, icy blue. "The Elders crow over his latest concoctions."

“It sounds like you’ve got a fair assessment,” said Tuketu. A smile tugged at a corner of his lips. “A newfound genius, risen from obscurity! A boon to the tribe. It’s the classic tale. I commend him for it.”

Then Tuketu leaned in. “So you’ve done your research on him. Why am I here?”

“What do you think of him?” said the Chief slowly. His aura was tamped down; Tuketu only felt it as a brush of frost on his skin. In any other conversation the Chief would’ve let it loose, but he respected Tuketu too much for that.

“You’ve got Tocho’s testimony. You’ve got Hu’s,” said Tuketu, shrugging. “What would mine add?”

“Tocho is a blunt object,” sighed Chief Rust. “Hu is a moron. You, I trust to tell me the unvarnished truth.”

Rust took another sip. “I am concerned,” he growled, “by the sudden and the drastic. In the span of a week, Io has gone from beneath my notice to among the most valuable men Rust Tribe has.”

He steepled his fingers. “He has snared my attention. Yours, too, by the look of it. It is remarkable. Too remarkable.”

"I do not dabble in superstitions. There is a rumor that he is demon-possessed. Inventing fantasies to explain the extraordinary is a fool’s pastime. The ways of Fate are mysterious, chance doubly so. We appear to have birthed a savant. Which begs a question…”

His voice dropped a half-register. His hand swirled the cup; the liquid broke against the glass’s sides like waves on a boulder. “Who is he truly?”

Tuketu laughed. “If I judge him harshly, will you take dire action?”

“A double-edged sword,” said the Chief, nearly snarling, “is not a weapon. It is a liability. The sharper it is, the more hesitant I am to sharpen it further.” He paused. “You have done quite some work on that front. These past few days you’ve rewarded him more than you have your own son.”

Tuketu shrugged again. “The boy deserved it more. Simple as that.”

“He has cleared Origin Level Five,” said the Chief. His eyes flashed. “In the span of a week. The same feat took me a year.” “You were not aided by a generous Alchemist’s dragons-horde of pills,” snickered Tuketu. He cocked his head. “Well, I’ve shown my hand. I like him.”

“Why?”

“I like his heart.”

Rust’s side-on glance could’ve sheared metal. “You and hearts. I hope your assessment rests on stabler legs than just this.”

Tuketu thought for a moment. “Not at all!”

“His bravery is only one factor,” said the Chief, frowning. “You focus on it too much. I am concerned about his loyalty. You like his heart. Can that heart be changed? By our enemies, perhaps? By greed?”

At this Tuketu shrugged. He strolled up to the Chief’s desk and snatched up his own goblet. Without asking, he tipped some drink into it. Rust didn’t stop him.

“I guarantee nothing,” said Tuketu. “What I see is a talent the Tribe would be foolish not to groom—a heaven-sent Talent given our circumstances…” He sipped. “You and I know better than anyone that our need for warriors is great.”

He thought for a moment. “Nothing suggests to me he’ll turn traitor. Nothing suggests a ruthless disposition. He gave his sister a Prime Bone; he does seem to care for her. He seems, at the moment, like a boy who’s come into great powers and wishes to make the most of them.”

Tuketu downed the glass. “Remarkable, yes. But his reaction is nothing extraordinary.”

Rust had stopped blinking. “He’s no designs to rise… above his station?”

“You needn’t worry about that,” grinned Tuketu. “For now, at least, he’s just a boy.”

“A boy with a ballooning ego.”

“So his demeanor has shifted. He’s more willing to throw his weight around. He’s young. Naive. It’s hardly a surprise and it’ll hardly last forever.”

“See to it,” snapped Rust, “that it does not.” Then he stilled. “Why are you defending him?”

Tuketu rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you, old friend, like his heart! Is that so difficult to believe?”

Rust looked at him levelly. Tuketu shrugged.

“It’s a great failing of men that we allow bias to blind us to merit. Favoritism is the killer of nations, nepotism its herald. In our Tribe it is a sin I refuse to abide. Among all others he’s proven himself worthy. It’s simple.”

“You choose strange ways to show your approval. One can earn your favor and think he’d drawn your ire.”

“I can hardly show bias, can I? If anyone wishes a reward from me, they’ll need to earn it.”

Sometimes speaking to Rust felt like speaking to a sheer cliff. But now a corner of his mouth twitched up, breaking the facade.

“You haven’t changed, have you, after all these years?” said Rust softly. He stood, resting both knuckles on the desk. “Even when you trained me all those decades ago. You still play the equal opportunity ass.”

“So I do.”

Rust raised an eyebrow, and Tuketu sighed. “My methods are often… convoluted. You know that. I wear masks. At the bottom of it all, though, you know where my loyalties lie.”

He held Rust’s gaze. “I trust my judgment. I am devoted to the tribe. You’ve asked my assessment? You have it.”

Rust didn’t bother to stare him down. Instead he, too, downed the rest of his drink and sat for a few seconds in silence. It was not an oppressive silence but a calculative one. He was settling down on a thought, a course of action.

“We migrate soon,” he sighed. “Very well. I trust you to mold him into a blade of the Tribe.” His gaze intensified; this time, he let a smidge of his bloodline flare out. “Make certain that it is a blade with one edge."

Time Elapsed: 1 week