What was power?

The Temple, in its primitive wisdom, believed the body was power. To them, manabeasts embodied the pinnacle of strength: born swifter, hardier, more lethal. Their hides eclipsed the finest armor, their claws outmatched steel, and their command of magic—something humans toiled over for decades—was as natural to them as breathing. Nature, they said, was sovereign, and these monsters were her chosen heirs.

Henry scoffed at such thinking. Yes, beasts were formidable, but what of it? Strength could be obtained, borrowed, stolen. It didn't matter whether one trained a lifetime or simply wielded the right artifact at the right time. He knew well of those relics, jealously hoarded by the Arbiters, each one capable of leveling entire armies in the hands of a simpleton. Was that not proof enough that brute strength meant nothing?

After all, artifacts could be wielded. So could men. Who was greater: the brute who felled a monster with one swing, or the man who decided when the swing fell? A hero could be one legend. A truly powerful man could orchestrate legends, bend them, command them like pieces on a board. Thrones, mana cores, bloodlines—all were petty trappings. Real power wore one face.

Intelligence.

That was Henry's truth. It took shape as he observed the fools of the Temple, worshipping beasts they half-controlled, half-feared. It crystallized the day he felled one of those so-called sacred monsters with nothing more than poisoned meat. He hadn't even meant to kill it; it was a test, a passing whim. Yet he watched with gleeful contempt as the mighty creature convulsed in filth, undone by its own stupidity. What good was muscle to grind stone to dust if one lacked the wit to recognize poison? What good was magic if all it conjured was soft earth to sleep on or caught raw fish for supper?

He would not bow to empty skulls with claws. Nor to the idiots who bowed to them. He had read the old records the Arbiters guarded so jealously. He knew what humanity had been, and what it could be again—if not for the cowardice passed down like an heirloom by senile men. His ancestors had survived the Great War not by barking at the moon but by ruling, commanding, building. Henry would emulate kings, not mongrels.

But ambition is not the same as talent. Henry possessed the vision, the mind, the clarity others lacked. What he did not have was charisma—the shallow spark that led fools to follow—and, worse, he lacked the crude strength that swayed lesser minds. He wasn't born with a talent for magic, and even if he had been, the Temple wouldn't have supported his education. They worshipped muscle, reshaping their bodies with monstrous grafts, a grotesque practice Henry loathed. His clan had little wealth and no appetite for commerce, so he had no family fortune to bankroll his ascent. Without coin, the vaunted Hall remained out of reach, despite being so close. Henry would have to labor like a mule for years to afford a single year as an acolyte. A waste of time.

So he waited. Patient. Calculating. Biding his time within the Sanctuary, tolerating menial chores for a roof and food, all the while plotting his exit.

Opportunity came when he delivered a mount to the Grand Market. The little lordling's tip had been meant for the ranchers that raised the beast, of course, but Henry saw no reason not to pocket what no one would miss. He bathed, dined richly, and indulged himself in a way his station rarely permitted. It was during this indulgence, as he sat in a fine restaurant, that fate intervened. A woman, plain in face but sharp in gaze, sat across from him. He had been ready to dismiss her—until she asked the question that changed his life:

"Do you want your life to make a difference?"

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From that moment on, Beating Heart of the Ox became Henry. He left the Sanctuary a week later…and returned after a year, though he never stayed for long. The Arbiters had no interest in his brilliance; they wanted his dark skin, his black ring tattoos—the marks that made nobles avert their gaze. That suited Henry fine. Let them underestimate him. Let them look away. Shadows were more useful to him than light.

It was important for his work that he maintained connections with his clan so, occasionally, he grit his teeth and slept among the beasts. It was rarely anything but a trial, one he endured for the sake of his greater duty. But, with a scarcity that matched the coming of a blood moon, he found the experience valuable.

His recent stay in the Sanctuary was proceeding with its usual mundanity. Henry was in the middle of mending pants, a menial job he'd taken on to pay for his meals, when a young man ran past him. The Temple taught its children to emulate predators, and predators did not rush unless something mattered. He followed at a measured pace until the youth led him to a large tent stitched with images of bruins, one of the tribe's sacred mongrels. The scent-marked lines of privilege were lost on Henry, but he knew the signs of status well enough. The Temple didn't believe that one man had the right to rule others, such as kings and nobles, but it was inevitable that the privileged separated themselves from the chaff. Whether it was through material goods or talent, certain families thrived, their prosperity naturally making others obey.

The tent must belong to one such family, though they were incredibly hard to keep track of for the non-initiated like Henry. Families didn't share last names, but scents. Ones too subtle for a human's nose to distinguish. Some of their physical changes could become so extreme that a stranger wouldn't be able to recognize a father and his son.

The runner seemed to be at the start of his journey, with no distinguishing characteristics. The young woman he summoned with a soft chuff was significantly further along the path. Her dark hair was tied back, fully exposing her triangular, furry ears that occasionally flicked away a persistent fly. Her face was mostly human, only disrupted by a nose that was too wide and flat, the nostrils darker than her skin, preparation for a muzzle. Fur covered the back of her arms, starting from the black rings on her wrists and disappearing under the shoulders of her sleeveless shirt. Her grin was that of a predator, containing too many teeth designed to shred meat.

Someone who didn't understand the Temple would think they were staring at each other purposelessly, not noticing the body language employed between them. Words were dangerous. Many times, the Temple had been tricked by the old nobles, another reason Henry was not impressed with his culture. Speaking too much was a sign that one couldn't be trusted. Conversely, one who could convey meaning without language, like a beast, was seen as virtuous.

The man gestured for the woman to follow with his head. She huffed in question. His hand moved near his face. In response, her face lit up, her smile stretching wider as she slapped his shoulder, telling him to hurry and lead the way.

That of course is when they spotted Henry.

It would have been better to join them in their quiet communication but he'd long since lost such finesse. "Problem?" he asked softly, brevity the closest he could come to their ideal.

They denied it. "Tribe fortune?"

The man made a face while the woman chuckled. The saints smiled on him. He expected more vague back-and-forth before getting anywhere, but the woman broke his expectations by speaking. "My sister is the moon."

Ah. The moon. A thing of shifting faces, fickle and powerful, generous one night, absent the next. A fortune—or a threat.

"Guest? I treat."

The woman made a curios sound.

"Best cook." Not a crazy boast. His work mandated him to be able to ingratiate himself with people all over the kingdom. The Temple was simple, the same in every corner of the kingdom. His tattoos were enough to guarantee him a tent, at least for a night, and he could work for more. Others usually required a lot more to open their doors. He'd found that a good cook had the best odds of being welcomed into the homes of strangers, even nobles.

The woman looked at him thoughtfully before nodding. A hand waved at her tent, an invitation for him to use her personal wealth to procure what he needed. Then she tapped her guide again and they ran off to retrieve the woman of opportunity.

Henry watched them go with a shrewd gaze, hoping his efforts would be worth the effort.

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