I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 857: Our Chieftain

“I have no further business in Caeloria,” Jack replied, his heterochromic eyes locking onto the shaman’s painted face. “The throne is secured for Rhys. The Council is cowed. My time is better spent in the west. I will ride with you to Krogar, and you will introduce me to the individual whom I’ve been waiting to meet.”

Grom studied Jack’s unblinking expression for several long heartbeats. The old orc nodded slowly, the silver runes along his tusks dimming as his tension receded.

“The journey across the Great Salt Flats and through the Iron Crags takes six weeks by heavy caravan,” Grom said. “Even with swift draft-beasts, the borders of our realm do not yield easily to outsiders.”

Jack’s lips parted in a sharp, cold smirk.

“We are not taking draft-beasts, Shaman,” Jack said.

Jack turned his back on the courtyard, walking three paces toward the open square before the villa. He raised his right hand toward the pale midday sky, his palm glowing with dense, primordial dark mana that warped the ambient light into swirling bands of obsidian glass.

“Tharaxis,” Jack commanded. “Awaken.”

The atmosphere above Caeloria did not simply shift; it fractured.

The wind sweeping through the high district died instantly, crushed beneath an ancient, divine gravity that descended directly from the heavens.

The marble arches of the surrounding villas groaned, small hairline cracks shooting across the stone as the very air grew heavy enough to press the breath from mortal lungs.

Erupting from the clouds in a blinding cascade of pure, pearlescent white radiance came Tharaxis.

The impact of the beast’s arrival was not kinetic; it was spiritual.

Skarl took two stumbling steps backward, his grip on his heavy cleaver faltering as the weapon clattered onto the gravel.

The other guards in the courtyard dropped into low, defensive stances, their breath catching in their throats as their survival instincts screamed against the presence of an entity that predated the founding of their clans.

Even Grom Zor-Grimmarch stood frozen, the tip of his staff trembling against the stone as he stared up into the golden, slit-pupil eyes of the primordial dragon.

“A dragon of lightning, but that should be impossible,” Grom whispered, his voice trembling with genuine, ancient awe. “I do not understand how this dragon even exists.”

“Mount up,” Jack said, his voice cutting through their stupor like a drawn blade. “We will be in Krogar before nightfall.”

Ren did not hesitate. With a practiced, effortless motion, the swordsman grabbed the iron chain connected to Morvana’s collar, dragging the weeping former queen across the stones and leaping onto the wide, armored ridge of Tharaxis’s lower coils. He secured her against an iron stanchion, stepping onto the scales with the casual indifference of a man boarding a ferry.

Grom looked at Jack, then signaled to Skarl. With rapid, reverent efficiency, the orcs hauled the heavy transit pallet onto the dragon’s broad back, their massive bodies dwarfed by the sheer width of the white scales.

Skarl settled near the rear, his hand clamped firmly around the chain of his cleaver, his wide eyes fixed on the back of Jack’s coat with newfound, unshakeable respect.

Grom climbed onto the beast’s back, driving the butt of his staff into the junction between two massive scales to secure his footing.

Jack stepped off the gravel, compressing the air beneath his boots, and rose smoothly into the sky, landing lightly upon the crest of Tharaxis’s horned skull.

Tharaxis let out a low, resonant hum.

A sound like tectonic plates shifting beneath an ocean.

With a single, effortless sweep of his massive serpentine body, the dragon launched into the upper atmosphere, clearing the marble spires of Caeloria in a heartbeat and tearing south westward across the cloud sea at terrifying, transonic speed.

The city of the High Elves shrank into a microscopic patch of white stone behind them, swallowed by the vast, jagged expanses of the eastern mountain ranges.

Fifty miles out, above the endless gray expanse of the Great Salt Flats, the rushing wind was deflected by a subtle, pressurized barrier of wind mana that hummed around Tharaxis’s scales, allowing conversation to proceed without shouting.

Grom moved forward along the dragon’s spine, stopping five paces behind Jack’s vantage point. The old shaman’s white war paint was dry against his volcanic skin, his long tusks catching the thin mountain light.

“You possess tools that belong to legends, Jack Kaiser,” Grom said, his deep voice cutting through the steady hum of flight. “A mortal who commands the imperial dragons and commands the succession of kingdoms. My ancestors spoke of entities who walked the earth with such gravity, but they called them sovereigns.”

“Titles are irrelevant,” Jack replied without turning around, his eyes fixed on the jagged black horizon of the eastern crags ahead. “Power dictates reality. The elves spent three centuries clinging to parchment treaties and blood purity, and now their champion is dead, and their queen is chained to your luggage.”

A low, guttural laugh escaped Grom’s throat. “True enough. The woman has not spoken a word since we cleared the city walls. She knows her destination.”

“Ensure she suffers appropriately,” Jack said flatly. “A quick death is mercy, and mercy is a luxury she did not grant your negotiator.”

“She will not receive mercy,” Grom stated with absolute, ancient conviction. “The shamans will drink the memory of her crimes from her marrow before she is handed to the labor lines. Her bloodline ends in the salt mines of Krogar.”

Grom paused, his grip on his staff steadying as he watched the rugged topography of the Iron Crags rise in the distance. The jagged, red-tinted peaks marked the ancestral borders of the Orcish domains.

A harsh, unforgiving land of jagged basalt canyons, smoking sulfur vents, and fortress-cities carved directly into living volcanic rock.

“Regarding your second request,” Grom continued, his tone shifting into something heavier, more deliberate. “The individual you seek.”

Jack turned his head slightly, his heterochromic gaze meeting the old orc’s sharp eyes. “You have a name?”

“The one you seek does not carry a simple name known to merchants,” Grom replied. “They operate within the deep rifts, far beyond the oversight of our war-chiefs and trade syndicates. But before you can step into their domain, we must present ourselves to the Great Chieftain of Krogar.”

“The ruler of your clans?”

“The Chieftain is a proud man,” Grom said, nodding slowly. “He commands the unified war-hosts of the Red Sands. He is a hard man, skeptical of soft-skinned visitors from the east and south, but when he sees the components you have delivered.

When we present the elven sow kneeling in iron chains, he will grant you full passage. He knows the pathways to the deep rifts better than any living soul. He will guide you to whoever you wish to find.”

Jack looked back toward the eastern horizon, where the crimson sun was beginning its descent toward the jagged, smoking peaks of the Iron Crags.

The wind whipped the hem of his dark coat, the empty sleeve rustling against his side, as invisible silver streaks ran across his internal meridians, humming with cold, ambitious vitality.

‘I wonder what kind of man this Chieftain is…’

Shout Out to Hokianga_Dunn, Andrew_Slater_5987, Jamar_Mcneil, and Markie_Jones on Golden Tickets!