Jerome padded into Zäk.

The two remaining fighters stayed by his side. Heads popped up to watch the Chiefton's nephew come into the village.

"I'm sorry, Andrew," he murmured to the remaining Sá. In actuality, he wasn't. He wasn't guilty or empathetic for what happened - death was part of life.

But death was also something Asuméns perceived as honorable, and to mention it brought attention.

"She wasn't the first to die in the past few days, while you've been gone," Andrew shrugged, glancing back at him. "The Chiefton..."

Jerome's eyes widened. The Chiefton was dead. But wouldn't he have been referred to as the Old Chiefton?

"Bless his soul," Jerome murmured, instead of voicing his question.

"Yes, indeed... Jerome, it is good to have you back." He turned, facing the newcomer, who he quickly recognized as Aleck, a childhood friend of his. "You look no worse for the wear."

"Only a few scratches from their necromancer. He's useless with a sword," Jerome chuckled.

"We will hear of your tales later," Aleck replied, his dark eyes glinting with excitement. "We have a crowning ceremony to attend."

"Why hasn't the New Chiefton already been crowned?"

Of course, Jerome knew the answer to this, but it was only proper to ask. Something bubbled up in his stomach for one fleeting moment - excitement. Thrill. Hope.

Just for a moment.

"Because you are to take his place, Jerome." Aleck reached out, his clawed hands resting on Jerome's upper arm with a smile.

"It's an honor." He felt his head tilt upwards. "I would guess the jeers of traitor would be to provoke me, see who's side I was really on?"

"Of course. Very few of us truly believe you are a traitor. There are always a few skeptics, but we are all loyal."

Jerome nodded. "Very well."

After a moment, he slipped from Aleck's grasp, he headed down to where his tribe was gathering. They turned to look, some already dipping their heads out of respect. He did not acknowledge them - they were lower than him.

This was his world now.

He saw the Old Chiefton's advisor, an older woman named Sheila, standing by an alter. Across from her, on the opposite side, stood the Old Chiefton's son, June. His blue eyes tracked every movement of Jerome's, revealing his hatred. His hands had been bound, along with his feet, and there was rope in his mouth. His back was pressed to a trunk of an oak tree.

An empty goblet sat upon the alter.

Things moved quickly on Asumé, Jerome knew. This ceremony would not take long.

"Jerome Aceti." Sheila. Brown eyes flicked down to look at him. "Kneel."

He did.

"As you understand, the previous Chiefton had died to Mí Fever."

That he did not know, but he answered anyways.

"I do."

"As you understand, he has called for you to be crowned Chiefton is his wake."

"I do."

"Do you know why?"

He did.

He said he did not.

"I don't."

"He claimed you were strong. You were undefeated in battle. You lived by laws and knew what was best for the groups you headed, for your family, and for your friends. You were not afraid to speak your mind. You devoted your life to Asumé's ways."

"I did. I do."

His head was starting to pound from keeping it ducked so long. The ground under him was getting boring.

"Do you understand what it means to be Chiefton?"

"I do."

"Recite."

He drew a breath.

"It means protecting the tribe. It means making decisions for the best of everyone, disregarding the rules to be selfish. It means laying down your life for your subjects."

"Correct."

He heard the smile in her voice. She had always been fond of him.

"Stand."

He did.

Lifting himself out of his deep kneel, he managed to sneak a glance. Hundreds of Asuméns watched, starting from five feet away. There were more of them than the Superiors gave them credit for.

"Will you uphold duties of Chiefton until the day you die?"

"I will."

"Do you understand that if you fail, you will face the wrath of your tribe?"

"I do."

This was it. This was everything. All he had worked for.

It still was in a whirlwind around him.

"I pronounce you, Jerome Aceti, as Chiefton of the Asumé tribe."

The fighters behind him burst into cries of pride as he dipped his head. An intricate headdress was brought to Sheila, feathers drifting down from lines of turquoise and uncut rubies. He felt the weight of it as it was set upon his crown, felt the feathers brush his neck where they ended.

And while the ceremony was short, this was not the end.

Shutting his eyes briefly, he held out his hands. There was suddenly cool metal in his hands. A ruby glinted from the hilt of the ritual dagger.

He slid the metal casing off, handing it to Sheila before twisting his free hand over. Taking a few steps forward, he positioned his wrist over the golden goblet.

Then, he slit open the veins.

Crimson drops splashed into the cup. His blood would not be the liquid that filled it.

Oh not.

Only an ounce or so dripped from the wound. The tribe behind him had fallen quiet again, waiting with bated breath as he picked up the dagger and the goblet, slowly moving over to June.

"I hope you rot," the Old Chiefton's son spat. Jerome smiled.

"I probably will. You, however, will rot sooner."

And he cut open June's throat.

Tipping the goblet, he managed to catch most of the blood within the rim. It fell in, mingling with Jerome's own slightly lighter blood.

Jerome, however, was not watching this.

His eyes locked on June's as the light faded from them, his sweet smile turning sinister.

Soon, the goblet was full. He stepped away, taking his place in front of the alter. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were drawn on him as he raised the cup to his lips and drank.

They errupted into cheers of, "Long live!" as he swallowed the thick, metallic liquid. He would drink all of the blood in the goblet, true, but only this first sip mattered to them. To him, it all mattered.

Perhaps it was dark, but Jerome did not mind the taste of blood. Syrupy and tangy, it was far from the most disgusting things he had tasted.

And by far, the blood of the last enemy he had was the best.

Yes, he thought, glancing over his tribe. Long live.