Chương 79: Two Months Under the Mist-Fangs

Two months were enough for the Mist-Fangs to stop pulling the rope tight. Not to remove it. Not completely. It simply stopped being visible. Zayn no longer slept in the open cage. The cage still existed. Three posts near the inner palisade, a low tent, two wolf-dogs that sometimes curled up there out of habit. The children even used it to play when Brakka was not looking.

They called it "catch the demonic human," which mostly consisted of yelling, falling down, shoving each other, and then accusing the slowest one of being the human. Zayn had considered protesting. Then he realized losing a cultural debate against seven-year-olds would probably be bad for his already highly questionable reputation. Now, he slept in a small hut at the edge of the camp. Not in the center. Not outside. Between the two.

That was exactly the place given to something people had stopped treating as an immediate threat, but still did not want breathing too close to the little ones at night. A compromise. The Mist-Fangs loved compromises that looked like useful insults. Zayn too, perhaps. His leg barely limped anymore. That was the strangest part.

Brakka had "fixed" it twenty-three days after his arrival, which was a very short way of saying: cut open, clean out, set straight, hold in place, insult, stitch up, watch carefully, then start insulting again when he tried to stand too early. He had screamed once. Not for long. Brakka had only said: — Good. Now the bad piece is back in the right place. Since then, the pain had stopped lying. It had become a scar. Zayn could run a little. Not for long. Not fast.

But enough that he was no longer obvious prey in every clearing. His soul force had changed as well. Not dramatically. Not like the heroes', probably. He had killed during hunts. Lean beasts. Border creatures. Scavengers. Once, a monster covered in black moss that had split open a young hunter's belly before Odran finished it. The gains had been small. +0. +1. Another +0. Then +2 only once, after a beast heavier than a horse.

Altogether, after two months, the number had settled at: Current Soul Force: 56 Zayn had stared at the window for a long time. Then he had said: — Two months for six points. Magnificent. At this rate, I'll become a world threat shortly after dying of old age. Narek had answered: — Here, the little ones gain faster carrying stones. Zayn had looked at him. — I'm really going to sell you to the humans as an educational tool. — You've been saying that for two moons. — I'm waiting for your market value to go up.

Narek had smiled. And that was the real problem. The boy smiled now without checking whether Zayn was going to bite. That morning, the camp smelled like rain. Not yet fallen. But close. The hunters knew it before the clouds. The wolf-dogs too. Even the children seemed more charged, racing between the tents as if the sky were already chasing them. Zayn sat by Brakka's fire, a strip of leather between his teeth, while the bear-woman tightened a brace around his forearm. Not a bandage. A support.

Since Flesh Assimilation had become less catastrophic, Brakka had decided it needed physical supervision. Which, in her mouth, meant making straps to limit the more violent distortions of his wrists and yelling at him when he used them badly. — Again, she said. Zayn took the leather strip from his mouth. — Good morning to you too. I slept well, thanks for asking. — Again. He sighed. Then laid his hand on a flat stone. He inhaled. Not the way Odran did. Not like Saeva. Not like Korr.

His own breath produced nothing noble. But he had learned that breathing before using the Fall reduced the damage a little. Not through magic. Through preparation. The mark on his tongue heated. He thought of the hard hide of the creature from Rhel-Fosse. A black plate appeared on the back of his hand. Sharper than before. Narrower. Its edges barely trembled. The pain came, of course. But it did not bite all the way to his elbow. Brakka pressed a needle against the plate. — Hold. Zayn held. One second. Two. Three.

On the fourth, the plate began to crack. On the fifth, he released. The skin split only slightly. A thin thread of blood appeared. Brakka nodded. With her, that was almost a standing ovation. — Better. Zayn looked at his hand. — I'm going to frame that word. You use it so rarely, it must be precious. — Don't get proud. You're now correctly doing what a sick lizard does without thinking. — Your emotional support has changed my life. Brakka grabbed his chin without warning. He tensed. She did not pull back.

— Tongue out. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. — I hate it when conversations start like that. — Out. He obeyed. The black mark was still there, branching through the flesh like a living crack. Less inflamed than before. Less bright. But present. Brakka examined it without disgust. That was one of her most terrifying qualities. She could inspect an abomination like an old wound that had healed badly.

— It reacts less when you eat normal food, she said. Zayn drew his tongue back in. — I'm delighted my mouth is adapting to the local diet. — It reacts when you're hungry. — A lot of things react when I'm hungry. — Not like that. He did not answer. Brakka put the needle away. — You're less afraid of running out. This time he really looked at her. She continued, as if speaking of a bone out of place: — At first, you hid everything. Meat. Water. Knives. Even bits of rope. Now you eat by the fire.

You take what's given. You keep less. — Flattering analysis. You mean I'm becoming domesticated? Brakka smacked him on the back of the head. Not hard. On principle. — I mean your body sometimes knows there will be another meal. Zayn fell silent. The fire crackled. Further away, Narek was laughing with two young hunters near the spear rack. Another meal. Simple phrase. Very dangerous. Zayn got to his feet. — I preferred it when you compared me to a sick lizard. — Me too, said Brakka. You answer less with your eyes.

Training began under a fine rain. Not heavy enough to stop the Mist-Fangs. Heavy enough to make the ground slick, plaster hair to faces, and give Jonah, if he had been there, at least fifteen reasons to complain with competence. Zayn stepped into the packed-earth circle opposite Narek. The boy had grown in two months. Not much. But enough that his shoulders were beginning to hint at the adult he would become. His gray ears were still too expressive. His survival instinct remained desperately unhealthy.

He held a short staff. Zayn had one too. Odran supervised the exercise. As always, he spoke little. As always, it was enough to be irritating. — Begin, Saeva said from the edge of the circle, because Odran did not like wasting human language. Narek attacked first. Too fast. Zayn dodged. Not elegantly. With practice. Two months earlier, he would have compensated with a transformation, a dirty trick, or a blow meant to end the fight before it became an exchange.

Now, at least, he knew how to step back without falling. Humiliating but real progress. Narek's staff passed close to his ribs. Zayn slid aside, struck the wrist, then tried to sweep his leg. Narek jumped. Too high. Zayn slammed a shoulder into him in midair. The boy fell into the mud. The children around the circle howled with laughter. Narek got up, covered in dirt, furious. — You cheated. Zayn set the staff on his shoulder. — Interesting concept. In my old culture, we called that "winning." Odran growled a word.

Saeva translated: — He says you won against impatience, not against Narek. Zayn looked at Odran. — Tell him I take the small victories. They complain less. Saeva translated. Odran did not smile. But his ears moved slightly. For him, that might have been an ovation. Narek came at him again. This time, he inhaled before moving. His body changed. Not visibly. Not to an ordinary human. But Zayn felt it.

That brief pressure, that living density, that "breath" the Mist-Fangs spoke of as something as natural as rain and as hard as surviving yourself. Aura. He knew the word now. He did not possess it. Narek had only a clumsy beginning of it, a flicker of instinct and will still unstable. But even that gave his strike a different weight. The staff hit Zayn's. His wrists shook. Not because of brute strength. Because of alignment. Body, instinct, breath. Three things Narek, even young, could begin to bring together.

Zayn, by contrast, still felt like a negotiation between several mistakes. He stepped back. The jealousy came. Brief. Sharp. Detestable. The mark on his tongue heated. Flesh Assimilation answered at once, like a dog that thought it had heard its name. His fingers wanted to harden. He cut the impulse off before it took shape. Not here. Not without permission. Not to compensate for humiliation in a training match. Narek saw it. — You almost did it. Zayn smiled. — And you talk while attacking.

Narek understood too late. Zayn knocked his balance out from under him with the tip of the staff. This time, Narek fell on his back. The children laughed louder. Narek stayed there, staring at the rain. — I hate you. — You say that with tenderness. — No. — You'll learn. Narek lifted the staff from the ground and tapped Zayn's ankle with it. — Twisted brother. The circle quieted a little. Not entirely. But enough. Zayn did not move. The nickname was not new. Well, not entirely.

Narek had thrown it at him once while running, then pretended it meant nothing. Some children had repeated it. Saeva had heard it. Brakka had grunted that it was better than "sick lizard." Korr had said nothing, which with him was almost permission. But this time, Narek had said it in front of the circle. Twisted brother. Not demonic human. Not prisoner. Not guest. Not full member either. Something bent between all that. Zayn felt the weight of the phrase settle into his chest. He did not like it.

So he raised his staff and set it against Narek's forehead. — Get up, badly carved little brother. The children exploded. Narek too, after a second. Even Saeva smiled. Zayn looked away before anyone saw too clearly what the phrase had done. Too late. Brakka saw from her fire. Of course. At noon, Korr took him outside the camp. Not far. Onto a low ridge overlooking the forest and the first wet lands to the west. The rain had stopped. Thin mists slid between the trees, giving the woods an almost living look.

Korr walked without visible weapon. Which, with him, changed very little. Zayn wore his half-mask, though now more from habit than necessity. The Mist-Fangs knew his face now. The children too. Some still preferred the mask because it made the stories more interesting. The marked mouth, however, remained a rarer subject. Heavier. Korr stopped at the edge of the ridge. — You stand better. Zayn looked at the forest. — Brakka threatened my leg until it cooperated. — She does that with everything. — Even furniture?

— Especially furniture. A silence passed. Then Korr raised one hand. — Feel. Zayn closed his eyes. He hated these exercises. Not because they were useless. Because they always revealed the same thing. He felt the wind. The damp. The moss. The wolf-dogs below. The smoke of the camp. Narek, probably complaining to someone. Saeva in a tree, because Saeva was often in a tree when she claimed she was not watching. Then he felt Korr. The pressure. Calm. Dense. More stable than Odran's. Broader than Narek's.

A presence that did not seek to crush, but filled the space like an old fire hidden under ash. Aura. Zayn tried to understand it. Not copy it. Only understand. His body wanted to answer by the old method: take, imitate, harden, transform. He forced silence. Nothing came from him. Not even a flicker. Korr spoke: — You feel. — Yes. — You do not do. — Thank you. I hadn't noticed the central failure of my morning. — Why? Zayn opened his eyes. — If I knew, it might be less amusing for everyone. Korr remained still.

Zayn sighed. — Because I don't project. I take. That's what your elder already told me. My instinct doesn't want to hold a place. It wants to survive the absence of one. Korr nodded slowly. — Better. — Is that supposed to encourage me? — No. It's true. Zayn looked at the forest. Far away, a bird gave a brief cry. Korr went on: — A warrior shows the world what he is. Not what he has stolen. Zayn smiled without joy. — You make it sound very personal. — It is. Silence. Long.

The sentence stayed between them like a blade laid across the tongue. At last, Zayn asked: — And if what I am doesn't deserve to be projected? Korr did not answer at once. The old chief was watching the trees. — Then you will find out whether you want to become something else, or only hide the same thing better. Zayn laughed softly. — Humans would have given me a longer sermon. — Humans are afraid of silence. — You aren't? Korr turned his old wolf eyes toward him. — We know what it contains. Zayn had no answer.

That was irritating. He was starting to run out of them often in this camp. That evening, the Mist-Fangs ate together. Not all of them. Never all. There were always lookouts, hunters, absences. But enough around the central fire for the camp to feel like a single breath. Zayn sat between Narek and Brakka. That had not been planned. Or rather, no one announced it. Narek dropped down beside him with two bowls, handed one to Zayn, and said: — Brakka put more roots in yours. Zayn looked at the bowl. — Why?

Brakka answered without looking up: — Because you're taking too long to stop being so thin. — There's a criticism I hadn't received yet this week. Narek pointed at his own bowl. — I got more meat. — Because you're growing. — You should too. Zayn looked at him. — I grew in the wrong direction. Narek thought about it. — That's why you're the twisted brother. — Exactly. Complete diagnosis. You can replace Brakka. Brakka set her ladle down heavily on a stone. Narek paled. — No. Zayn took a bite to hide his smile.

The food was hot. So was the fire. Around them, conversations rose in waves. A hunting story. An argument over a badly read track. Two children reenacting Narek's fall into the mud with remarkable artistic cruelty. Saeva correcting a younger hunter on how to clean a spearhead. Odran saying three words and settling an entire debate. Zayn listened. Not as a complete outsider. Not as a member either. But he recognized the voices now. He knew Brakka growled lower when she was worried.

That Saeva clicked her tongue before lying to protect someone. That Odran always looked west when thinking. That Korr never sat with his back to the forest. That Narek laughed louder when he had been afraid just before. That was useless knowledge for surviving alone. Therefore dangerous. The elder sat across the fire, a bowl in her hands. She looked at Zayn for a while. Then said: — You smell less of only death. The circle quieted. Zayn looked up.

— Should I take that as a compliment or as another deeply offensive olfactory assessment? — Both. Narek smiled. Brakka nodded as if the answer were medically valid. The elder continued: — You still smell of demon. Of hunger. Of the things you have eaten. Of the things you do not say. But now... She tilted her bowl toward the fire. — There is camp smoke too. Zayn did not answer. He could have. A joke. An evasion. A light attack. Nothing came quickly enough. Camp smoke. It was little. It was too much.

Saeva tossed him a piece of meat from the far side of the fire. He caught it by reflex. — Eat, demonic human, she said. You're thinking with too sad a head. Zayn looked at the meat. Then at Saeva. — One day, I'll write a treatise on your collective inability to let a person have an inner crisis in peace. Odran spoke. Saeva translated, smiling: — He says if your inner crisis makes noise, it belongs to the camp. The children laughed. Narek too. Zayn stayed still for a second. Then he laughed. Really. Not for long.

Not loudly. But without the break in it. The sound came out before he controlled it, light, almost stupid, almost normal. The fire seemed to stop. Or maybe it was only him. Narek was looking at him with a huge grin. — You laughed. Zayn immediately went serious again. — Lie. — Everybody heard. — Collective hallucination. Brakka said: — No. I heard it. — Medical betrayal. Saeva added: — Me too. — Feline conspiracy. Odran raised a hand. Even him. Zayn stared at him. — You, I'm particularly disappointed in.

Korr, at the edge of the fire, said calmly: — The camp heard it. This time, everyone laughed. Even Zayn had trouble not doing it again. He lowered his eyes to his bowl. And for a few seconds, he did not think about killing to progress. Not about fleeing. Not about forbidden flesh. Not about heroes who had to shine far away beneath clean ceilings. Not about the Throne whose name no one here knew was in his mouth.

He thought only that the fire was warm, that his body was not shaking, that his leg no longer lied, and that Narek had just stolen a piece of his meat while believing he was being discreet. Zayn caught his wrist without looking. Narek froze. — Bad thief, said Zayn. — Bad guard. — I'll let you keep that mistake for now. He released the boy. Narek reclaimed the piece of meat with a victoriously shameless smile. Zayn could have taken it back. He did not. Night deepened around the camp.

The Mist-Fangs ate, talked, laughed, argued, breathed. And in the shadow between the trees, far beyond the firelight, something watched. Not close enough to be smelled by the dogs. Not dense enough to trigger the lookouts. A thin presence. Patient. It saw the demonic human sitting by the Mist-Fangs' fire. It saw the gray-eared boy steal his meat. It saw the former prisoner laugh with them. Then the presence vanished before the mist could rise. The camp went on living.

Not yet knowing that, somewhere, a rumor had just found a more dangerous shape. Zayn was no longer only hidden among the beastmen. He was beginning to belong there.