NOVEL NEXT Chapter 41 – The Red Takes Root
South of Steel City, where the clang of forges faded into the distance and the smoke-hung skies opened into something gentler, lay the territory of the Megh Clan.
Unlike the harsh metallic sheen of the city's northern reaches, the Megh quarter breathed a different rhythm. Here, buildings curved with softer angles and bore hues of mossy green and aged jade, their roofs painted in deep forest tones that shimmered in the daylight like damp leaves. Vines climbed deliberately across stone arches. Courtyards bloomed with carefully maintained trees—some ancient, some young—and the air carried the faint scent of rain on bark.
The heart of the compound was its open training grounds, a wide, ringed platform of pale stone with old tree roots coiling beneath the cracks. Dozens of cultivators moved across it in unison—spear drills, staff forms, hand-seal repetitions—each movement measured, flowing like branches in the wind. Their robes whispered softly with motion, flashes of green, brown, and pale gold.
Normally, it was a place of quiet dignity. The kind that didn't need to announce itself—only to exist and be respected. But today, something was different.
Beneath the ordered forms and rhythmic footfalls, an undercurrent pulsed. Like a taut string stretched too far. Faces were focused, but more than a few eyes drifted toward the outer gates or flickered across the pavilion at the centre of the grounds, where high-ranking elders often gathered.
A messenger disciple sprinted past, his robes fluttering as he crossed the garden paths. Two instructors stopped mid-form to exchange glances. Today was an important day for them, which might even decide their future in steel city.
A lone wind stirred the trees, sending a rustle through the leaves overhead. It wasn't loud—but somehow, everyone heard it.
A sparring pair hesitated mid-clash. A young girl, barely past her first breakthrough, paused in her breathing exercise and looked up, uncertain. The serenity had not broken, but it was fraying—at the edges, in the silences between footsteps.
High above, on one of the layered balconies that encircled the main pavilion, two elders stood in stillness. One of them, a woman with silver-threaded hair woven into a vine-like braid, stared at the sky with narrowed eyes.
"Too many ripples," she murmured.
The other, silent, simply nodded.
From outside the main gates came the sound of footsteps—measured and deliberate.
And with that, the calm of the Megh compound was bound to not last much longer. The wind still moved—but something in it had stiffened. A tension too quiet to name, yet too old to ignore.
The soft hum of practice on the Megh Clan's training grounds faltered, then quieted altogether.
Dozens of cultivators turned toward the main gates as footsteps—heavy, many—marched into earshot. What arrived was not just a group of visitors, but a procession. The kind that turned the very air brittle with weight.
First came the yellow.
A cluster of cultivators in robes dyed the deep hue of old turmeric strode into view, their pace slow but full of self-assurance. The Verma clan. At the front strode Verma Jitesh, tall and square-shouldered, his salt-streaked beard trimmed with military neatness. Age clung to him only in the silver at his temples, not in the way he moved. Flanking him were two elders who looked like in their sixties, both silent, both sharp-eyed—blades still sheathed, but not dulled. Though their robes couldn't hide the fresh cuts of submission.
Then came the white.
Like snow trailing after a summer storm, the Kaleen clan followed next, their pristine robes flowing with each measured step. At the forefront walked a veiled woman, her presence quiet yet striking. She moved like still water—graceful, effortless—but beneath her veil, those eyes were sharp, calculating. Three elderly men walked behind her, fanning out slightly as they crossed the courtyard boundary. Their aura was colder than the whites they wore, like old porcelain—flawless and brittle.
But it was the red that broke the sky open.
The Dravhal clan came last, and with them came weight. Their crimson robes seemed to burn under the sunlight, each step landing like a drumbeat. At the centre of that red tide strode Dravhal Varesh. He looked less like a clan leader and more like a battle-hardened warlord who had been handed robes out of obligation. His eyes swept the compound like a scythe. Three elders marched behind him, slower, older—but the sheer pressure they emanated felt like it could press bones to powder.
Every head in the Megh courtyard had turned. Even those who hadn't been watching knew—by the way the wind had stilled, by the sharpness in the sunlight, by the way their own qi responded, pulling tighter to their cores.
The visitors stopped near the centre of the grounds.
No one spoke.
The courtyard felt smaller now—constricted, like the air itself had drawn tight around the gathering of giants.
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The Verma and Dravhal clans stood side by side, red and yellow blending in uneasy harmony. It was subtle—just shared proximity, the synchronized stillness—but to anyone with eyes, it was undeniable. Whatever pride the Verma clan once held had now been folded into crimson sleeves. Submission cloaked in cooperation.
Even those who had heard the rumours—whispers passed in taverns and behind closed doors—found it difficult to swallow, now that the truth stood flesh and blood before them. In the history of Steel City, the four main clans had quarrelled, challenged, even waged covert skirmishes. But never—never—had one bowed.
And yet here it was. A silent, blistering truth.
The Kaleen delegation kept their distance. Not by accident.
Fairy Shuvi, head of the Kaleen clan, stood poised and quiet, a single frown curving beneath her veil. Her fingers, long and slender, tapped gently against her sleeve—an unconscious rhythm betraying disapproval. The three elders behind her said nothing, but their narrowed eyes never left the space between Jitesh and Varesh.
A moment later, a voice echoed softly across the courtyard—clear, unhurried, carrying authority without the need to shout.
"Welcome, honoured guests."
All eyes turned as a tall figure stepped onto the platform at the end of the courtyard, followed closely by a woman in flowing green robes and three elders with long white hair and emerald-tinged sashes. The man's every step was measured, as if he walked across the breath of his ancestors' reputation.
Megh Pramod. Leader of the Megh Clan.
Beside him was his wife, known across the city as the Green Fairy—not merely for her wood affinity, but for the quiet way she could still a room—or break it, if she wished. Her presence settled over the gathering like a forest wind—soft, but old and knowing.
"Clan Leader Varesh," Pramod began, inclining his head, "Clan Leader Jitesh… Fairy Shuvi." His tone remained even as he turned toward each leader in turn. "It honours our halls to host you. Please, accept the hospitality of our clan."
The three leaders acknowledged the greeting, though in markedly different ways.
Varesh gave a nod—minimal, controlled. His eyes never left Pramod's face. Jitesh mirrored him, but his gaze faltered just briefly before settling again.
Fairy Shuvi offered a graceful tilt of her head. "The Megh clan's hospitality is known far and wide," she said, her voice as smooth as water over stone. "It's been some time, Clan Leader Pramod."
Pramod offered a warm smile, though his eyes sharpened ever so slightly. "It has. Too long."
Behind the formalities, glances flicked back and forth—between elders, between heirs. Beneath each bow and greeting, there was calculation, weighing, silent judgment.
Only two elders stood behind Jitesh. The absence of a third was not lost on anyone.
Pramod's gaze swept over them, then landed on the empty space where a third should have stood. His voice was courteous when he asked, "I don't see First Elder Krivan among you. I hope his health is not failing?"
A silence followed that question—not long, but longer than it should have been.
Jitesh's smile thinned. "Elder Krivan is in seclusion. He sends his regrets."
It was an elegant lie.
Everyone present—every elder, every cultivator, even the younger generation at the edge of the courtyard—heard the truth in that pause. Whether Krivan had been maimed or killed, he had not gone willingly into that silence.
And the absence now stood like a scar between the Verma and the rest.
Fairy Shuvi's frown deepened.
Behind Varesh, the Dravhal elders remained still, impassive, but their aura pulsed—low and steady like coiled heat.
Green Fairy's gaze flickered toward her husband. Silent understanding passed between them.
After the pleasantries, the group headed towards the main hall.
The main hall of the Megh Clan was a circular chamber of quiet dignity—pillars carved with vine motifs, the faint scent of pine resin lingering in the air. Sunlight filtered through the green-tinted glass panels above, painting soft, leafy shadows over the polished floor.
Megh Pramod walked at the front of the group, his robes flowing behind him, a calm expression masking the iron beneath. To his right walked the Green Fairy, serene as ever, while the three grand elders followed in measured silence, their steps echoing with weight and age.
Seats were already arranged. Pramod sat at the central position, elevated by half a step—not in arrogance, but by old design. Green Fairy took the seat beside him, and to her right, the elders sat in order of seniority.
Across from them, the three arriving clans filled their designated places. The Dravhal contingent moved first—Varesh at the lead, calm and poised, followed by his three elders. To their right, Jitesh and the Verma elders took their seats, expressions unreadable. At some distance, as though deliberately spaced, Shuvi and the Kaleen elders settled in, her veil shifting faintly with each breath.
Once everyone had settled, a servant stepped forward to pour tea. The sound of liquid hitting porcelain broke the silence. A few polite murmurs passed. Varesh shifted—and the scrape of his chair carved through the silence like a blade.
He leaned forward slightly. "There is something that must be addressed," he said evenly. "The Ember Spire."
The air stilled.
Even the Green Fairy paused, her hand hovering just above her cup.
Pramod didn't blink. "What of it? Oh—are you referring to that little rumour about your clan claiming the Ember Spire as your own?"
Varesh's lips curled faintly. "Not rumour. Truth. The Dravhal Clan now controls the Spire. With the Verma Clan's formal support, the Spire's future is no longer in question."
Shuvi's head tilted, veil shifting just enough to reveal the furrow in her brow. "Since when does one clan get to decide such things?" she asked, her voice calm but cold.
Verma Jitesh spoke then, voice soft but firm. "Lady Shuvi, we believe the Spire under Dravhal management will benefit the city. Their resources, their strength—Steel City needs order, not stagnation."
Shuvi gave a low chuckle, not quite amused. "Your clan has never lacked flowery words, Jitesh. But I wonder—do you even believe your own words or if these are your words at all."
Jitesh's face flickered. A muscle twitched along his jaw—small, controlled. But his eyes slid, just briefly, toward Varesh… and then dropped. He said nothing.
A polite silence followed. Everyone in the room heard what wasn't said.
Pramod leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. "You expect Steel City to simply… accept this?" His tone was quiet, but his presence filled the room.
Varesh's hands spread in an imitation of humility. "The Spire should belong to the strong. Those who can manage it, deserve it. That's the way of forging, is it not?"
Shuvi turned her gaze away, her silence more cutting than any words. One of the Kaleen elders muttered something under his breath—low, but bitter.
The stillness that followed was not peace.
It was the breath before the spark.
Green Fairy finally spoke, her tone light, but laced with iron. "And clan leader Varesh is sure that he is the strong one?"
All eyes turned towards her and for a moment silence engulfed everything.