Chapter 4

A dead silence fell over the square. Every eye was fixed on the massive boar, a greedy, hungry light in them. But no one moved. Bronson's presence was a physical barrier, a wall of quiet menace.

Abigail stepped out from behind him. She patted the huge bundle of vines. "This," she announced, her voice ringing with newfound confidence, "is the food I promised. Ten times what you lost."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. They thought the bundle was filled with more meat.

Abigail untied the knot. The bundle fell open, and a cascade of huge, dirt-covered tubers rolled out onto the ground.

The crowd's excitement died instantly, replaced by stunned, disappointed silence.

Chelsea let out a shrill, mocking laugh. "Is this a joke? You bring us mud and rocks? You are trying to fool the Chieftain!"

An old warrior stepped forward, peered at the tubers, and his face went pale. He stumbled back in terror. "Devil's Root!" he croaked. "Those are Devil's Roots!"

Panic erupted. The crowd recoiled as if the tubers were venomous snakes.

An elderly man leaning on a gnarled staff, his face a mask of grim authority, made his way through the parting crowd. The Shaman, Gifford Martin, supported by Chelsea. He stared down at the tubers, his expression dark.

He struck the ground with his staff. "Decades ago," he proclaimed, his voice raspy with age and power, "clansmen, starving, ate the sprouted Devil's Root. They were dead by morning, foaming at the mouth."

Chelsea seized the moment. "She didn't bring us food, she brought us poison! She means to murder the entire clan! Her heart is black!"

The tribe's fear turned back to fury. Several young warriors raised their spears, their points aimed directly at Abigail.

A low, rumbling growl vibrated from Bronson's chest. He moved in front of her, a shield of tense muscle and killing intent. The sheer force of his aura pushed the warriors back a step.

Abigail leaned around him, her voice urgent. "No! The Shaman speaks a half-truth!" she yelled, her voice desperate. "The Star-Gods warned me: when the Devil's Root grows green skin and sprouts 'serpent tongues,' a dark poison enters it! But these are fresh and pure, filled with the earth's life-giving energy! They are perfectly safe!"

But to a people who still struggled to master fire, even these explanations were met with heavy doubt. The concept of hidden poisons entering and leaving a plant sounded like a demon's incantation, deepening their fear.

The Chieftain's brow furrowed. He wanted to believe, but he could not defy the Shaman's authority, not when it was a matter of life and death for his people. He raised a hand, signaling his guards to seize her.

The situation was hopeless. The wall of ignorance was too high to climb with logic.

Just as the guards moved to grab her, Bronson acted. He reached down and picked up one of the largest, muddiest tubers from the pile.

The square went silent again.

He turned to Abigail, his deep blue eyes holding no trace of doubt, only a question. "You said this is food," he said, his voice low. "You're sure?"

Abigail stared at him, at the unwavering trust in his gaze. A lump formed in her throat. She nodded, her voice thick with emotion. "Yes. Cooked, it's completely safe."

That was all he needed.

He turned back to face the Chieftain and the Shaman. "I will test it," he announced, his voice booming across the square.

The crowd gasped. Chelsea's eyes widened in disbelief. To willingly eat the Devil's Root was suicide.

Gifford snorted. "A fool's death. But it will prove my point."

"If I live," Bronson stated, his voice hard as iron, "it proves she is innocent. And you will accept me as a warrior of this clan."

The Chieftain considered the terms. If Bronson died, the tribe got a free boar. If he lived, they got a new food source and a warrior of terrifying power. It was a win-win. He nodded. "Agreed."

"No!" Abigail grabbed Bronson's arm, her panic rising. "Bronson, don't! It's not poisonous, but eating that much raw starch will cause severe stomach cramps. It will be incredibly painful."

He looked down at her small hand on his arm, then covered it with his own. His thumb brushed the back of her hand, a rough, comforting gesture. "Don't worry," he murmured.

Then, under the weight of hundreds of terrified, hateful, and hopeful eyes, Bronson brought the raw, dirty tuber to his mouth.

A loud, crisp crack echoed in the dead silence as he bit off a huge chunk. He chewed it, dirt and all, his jaw working with grim determination.

Chelsea stared at his throat, her eyes alight with vicious anticipation, waiting for him to choke, to fall, to die.