"What happened to your face?" With a single fluid motion, Mom dropped her load and somehow managed to undo the strap as well.
"A disagreement with Virgl about my appearance," I said, lost now that our usual evening ritual—me helping her with the harness—was gone. I didn't know where to put my hands. The whole conversation started differently than I'd imagined. "Your son is too refined for this dump."
"And that's true!" she gently touched my cheek with her cool fingers. "Tomorrow I'll head to Black Mountain. I'll find you some fresh Body Restoration herbs."
"No need, Mom," I waved my hands. "It's healing too fast already. I'll have to hide from his gang's eyes for a few days."
"Healing fast?" Mom stepped inside and examined my face under the lamplight. "You mean... this's already healed?" Her voice trembled.
"It's alright. All good," I hugged her tightly, trying to comfort her. Leila, sniffling again, nestled beside us—she'd been scared too when I came home. "I got under the skin of the big boss, pushed a few wrong buttons. It stacked up. I'll act the way he wants from now on. It won't happen again. Your son will be patient, Mom."
"And what does he demand from you?"
"Nothing new," I smirked. "To be village trash. Keep my eyes down, stay filthy and ragged. Brighten his mood every day with my look."
"I'm sorry, son, I'm so sorry!" She squeezed me tight—so hard I groaned, and then loosened her grip, startled. "My guilt keeps piling up. I haven't even worried about how you live without me, leaving the house and your sister on your shoulders!"
"Mom, stop." It hurt to see her like this—it wasn't her fault.
"Forgive your mother, son. But that trader," she hissed, "he sees my desperation and barely offers a quarter of the true price. Two more years!" She grabbed my shoulders and pushed me back, her eyes full of pain. "Two long years I've asked you to endure whatever trials the sky throws at you. Only then can I save you both and bring us back to Arroyo!"
"Mom, enough!"
"Mom, you talk like we've been attacked by raiders," Leila grumbled, unhappy she'd lost her hug.
"Oh, sweetheart, you're not far off," Mom sighed, pulling her into another embrace. "It's alright. Mama will gather young herbs and plant her little garden on the southern slope of Black Mountain, where the sun always shines. In a year, I'll harvest something decent—maybe even better than Cardo's. Maybe enough to finally shut that greedy merchant's mouth."
"Mom," I nearly shouted, grabbing her hands, "a patch of herbs could attract Beasts! Scavenging the ruins is one thing—it's dangerous, sure. But planting them yourself? That's practically sending invitations!"
"It'll be fine. Mama's a seasoned wanderer of the Wasteland! Have you ever heard of Cardo's guards fighting a Beast?" she said with her worn-out phrase and her usual smile.
"Stop it." I was serious now—and pulled a low trick. "You always talked about your youth, and there wasn't a word about hunting parties. Do you want to die on Black Mountain and leave us alone with Cardo?"
"That's low, son!" Mom gasped, and her gray eyes sparked, turning steel.
"How else am I supposed to beat your stubbornness over herbs, inheritance, and money?" I stared back, unflinching, unmoved by guilt or anger.
"You don't understand how hard things will be in a new place!" She launched into the same speech I'd heard countless times.
"I do understand how hard it'll be without you!"
Leila glanced between us, too timid to interrupt or cry as our near-argument played out.
"Stop going to the mountain!"
"No!" Mom sliced the air with her hand. "I can promise to be more careful. But you need to understand—without money, nothing will change for us!"
"No garden on that cursed mountain tower!" I laid down my condition.
"Fine. Deal, my son," she sighed with relief, quickly switching topics—her favorite tactic during arguments: "Are you two planning to feed your mama tonight?"
"Get up! Move! Everyone to the square! Hurry!" came a deafening shout right beside us.
"Get out of our house!" Mom yelled and, apparently, threw something—or someone—toward the door. A crash followed, and the entrance mat flew aside, knocked loose by a dark figure. Leila, terrified, burst into tears, and I rushed to her.
"Darss woman!" came the yell from outside. "Chief's orders! Everyone to the square! Now! Or I'll come back in and drag you out!"
"That you, Paurit? That rotten burp of yours is hard to mistake. Took your chance to grope someone?" Mom shot into the dark, and my teeth clenched.
"Watch your mouth!" the same voice replied bitterly. "I said I'll drag you out—and I will!"
"Start with Mirglo, then, coward!" Mom kept mocking him while I hurriedly dressed Leila in the dark.
"Nah, she's not my taste," Paurit bragged. "I like a woman you can flip over—not one you have to walk around. Come out and drag your sorry caravan with you. Or I'll do it myself."
"If you step in here, I'll break your legs," Mom threatened.
"The Chief's legs too?" came another mocking voice from outside. Rakot?
"Wait. I'm dressing. We'll come out," Mom answered after a pause, muttering under her breath, "Already calling him Chief outright. Rotten darss…"
"You can come out just as you are—I couldn't see you well in the dark anyway!" Paurit added cheerfully.
I'll remember your name, I swore to myself.
It looks like they're gathering the whole village. We were among the first to be roused, and now, standing on the platform—the same one where my Ascension began with a morning run—we saw figures moving between houses, drawn by the rising scarlet sun and the shouting from all directions. What was going on?
"Darss-fed fool! Di, I've told you so many times to be more careful!" Mom suddenly whispered angrily.
I turned and saw Uncle Di stepping into the square. Even in the gray light of night's final moments, he looked pale as limewash, his tan smeared like dirt across his face. What mistake had he made? Did Mom understand what was happening?
"Di, what happened?" she asked quietly, not even looking his way.
"Salted the meat. Six quyrgal carcasses," Uncle Di mumbled, slumped and hunched. "Dug into a large nest. Got lucky."
"Lucky?" she asked, almost sounding out each syllable, and then snapped: "Greedy idiot."
"What do I do, Eri? What should I do?" It hurt to look at him. He seemed to tremble with tiny shivers.
"Pray to some god that you weren't the only fool in the village," Mom hissed. "Then the punishment might be lighter."
"What do I do, what do I do?" Uncle Di sounded like some panicked housewife who burned dinner and now moans over the coals, waiting for a husband's wrath.
"Di, stop shaking! Are you a man or not?" Mom finally looked at him directly. "Ralio, slap him. I'm afraid I'll break something if I do it myself."
"Eri!" Uncle Di protested, while his wife just shook her head and sighed.
"What, Eri?" Mom shook her head too—but unlike Ralio, hers came with fury, not regret. "Didn't I tell you not to leave a trace?"
"Yes, Eri," Di replied meekly. Rat bit his lip, staring at his father, who barely resembled himself.
"Now I'm telling you—step back from us. Make it look like you've stopped helping. Honestly, it might be a good thing you have so much meat."
"Why's that?" Di looked utterly lost.
"More likely they'll believe you've stopped supporting us," Mom replied coldly, inspecting him.
"Eri, forgive me!" Di's color snapped from white to red. "I remember who saved my life!"
"We'll talk later. Step back," Mom said, turning away from their family.
No new faces appeared. They must have rounded everyone up. Only then did Cardo arrive—huge, bull-like. Like the beast from Dad's stories. Hunters rarely go after bulls; they're tough, dangerous. Arrows can't pierce them—you have to use spears. But it's not just difficulty—they're feared for their intelligence and vengefulness. If you wound one and don't kill it, it will track you down. One story says a bull found a hunter's home and killed him there at night. Bulls are only hunted if there's certainty of success—no escapes allowed. Even lions or mockers won't attack unless they can finish the job. If they fail, they vanish from its sight for weeks.
I fear Cardo resembles a bull in more than appearance.
He didn't look like a village chief at all. As usual, he wore simple leathers and his beard was a tangled black mess, untrimmed like some lone hunter. It clashed sharply with his long, loose dark-brown hair.
He scanned the crowd gathered in clumps and raised his hand to speak. But he didn't get the chance.
"What the darss! Who the hell are you, cult-spawned puke?! Get out!" a wild voice screamed—and someone's body flew out of Orikol's house. No wings, so it crashed ten meters from the doorway, which lost its mat in the process. Orikol stormed out, looked around, and shouted again: "Cardo, you crusty vomit, what the hell is this?!"
"Calm down, Orikol. A mistake was made," Cardo grimaced like he was chewing rotten bilton. "No one was supposed to bother you. My man got overzealous."
"Oh, should I clap and skip away happily now?" the ex-Warrior replied, switching tones with unsettling ease.
"What do you want?" Cardo asked, glancing at the villagers.
"Punishment. Your men have grown bold from lack of consequence," Orikol wagged his finger like scolding a child. "I sense the day is near when they'll start pushing women around."
"Orikol," Cardo forced a laugh, "what nonsense is this? We're all villagers here."
"Yes, yes," Orikol nodded calmly, then raised his voice: "I've heard that kind of talk before—in a village that burned. They say the chief's house lit up first."
"Enough," Cardo growled. "I apologize." He strode over to the man now on all fours, grabbed him by the collar, and punched him hard in the face—multiple times—until he collapsed. "Enough?"
"Hm," Orikol mused, looking at the crimson dawn. "So early, and I'm already awake. Once more."
"Get out of my sight, whelp," Cardo snarled and kicked Ma hard in the backside, sending him flying again.
Shame it wasn't Paurit, I thought. But he's not stupid enough to treat Orikol like just another villager. He'd never try to drag him out by force.
"So, what brings you all to the square?" Orikol asked, rubbing his sleep-crushed face and stubble.
"Villagers!" Cardo shouted, ignoring the teacher. "By the will of the sky and gods, our ancestors came to rest here—in the heart of our country. Yes, it's a harsh and meager land. But praise the heavens, we've managed to live with dignity and raise our children, even among these sands, mingled with the dust of the Ancients. What's the strength of our village? Our unity! That we labor side by side, meeting hardship together. That's how it was…
"But each day, I've watched you drift—thinking less about each other, more about yourselves. We grow weaker. Our stores run dry. The caravans avoid us.
"I won't allow it anymore. Or heaven help us—our village will vanish into the sand like thousands before. Today, I will ensure every villager obeys my commands—and none are hoarding our meager resources, robbing them from our children.
"Warriors, forward!"
"What warriors, smug puke?" Mom hissed. "Guards are only allowed in five-star villages."
"Spread out! You, over here!" Cardo's men began driving us to the edges of the square, lining us up like exam takers—where everyone can see and be seen. "You three—this side!"
Then we watched silently as Rakot, Paurit, and old Gazil went house to house, searching and laying out whatever they deemed hidden or excessive in front of each family. More people looked worse off than even Uncle Di. And I saw with my own eyes what Mom had warned about—everyone hoards. Hoards plenty.
It's not poverty that keeps the caravans away.
If wandering traders knew our village's private stashes, they'd swoop down like vultures on a carcass. Meat appeared in abundance. I'd thought the village was starving. There were piles of hides, teeth, horns, hooves—and some even had mountains of rare goods you could only buy from traders.
I spotted Skirto trembling. In front of him and his mother stood Porto's father, and Rakot laid down herbs—a huge sack of them. Virgl's loyal lackey had clearly gotten his mother a top spot among the Black Mountain herbalists. She must've wanted more—and Rakot wasn't covering for her.
Meanwhile, Shigo's mother had nothing laid out, though she was in a similar situation—her spot paid for not by her son, but the death of her husband years ago.
In truth, Uncle Di had little to worry about. From my angle, he had less meat than anyone—and no hides or gear at all. Not bad for the village's second hunter, despite Cardo's attempts to belittle him. Mom's advice had really helped him.
But just as I allowed myself a smile, my heart skipped a beat.
A hide hit the ground. On it—a scraggly half-dried weed.
Paurit stood before us.
I saw his oily smirk, the crumbs glistening in his beard, the greasy hair clumped in wild tufts, and those gleaming little black eyes—burning with something I couldn't name.
"Scum," Mom whispered, lips barely moving.
"Easy, easy," Paurit crooned, somehow smiling even uglier than before—it made me sick. He almost whispered, too. "Next time, be softer. A man came kindly—and she hit him. What a witch. Be gentler, woman, and life will be easier. You've clearly forgotten how to treat a man."
An hour ago, I swore I wouldn't forget your name, Paurit. I was wrong—it's useless to me. By heaven's witness, there's not room enough beneath this sky for both of us. You will die, or hatred will tear my heart apart. I don't care about your stars, or that you're a grown, seasoned hunter. You're used to fearing Beasts who hunt strength. But you should be fearing me—I'm chasing strength too.
I pulled a stone from my pouch and clenched it until pain spread through my fist, forcing my eyes down into the sand—so he wouldn't see my hatred. Wouldn't glimpse the death waiting for him. I swear, you'll die and vanish without a trace in the dunes. Your name will be buried under this sky.
What followed drifted past me. I barely registered what our self-proclaimed chief was ranting about. Responsibility, punishment—something like that. Then came the sentences. One guilty per household. Cardo assigned the lashes.
That I couldn't ignore.
He gave Mom five lashes. Same as Kari—for a sack of herbs. People on the square shouted, begged. But Mom just stood proud, didn't say a word, not even to claim she'd been framed.
I stayed silent. Leila cried out, but Ralio clutched her close—and I was grateful. I couldn't protect my sister at that moment.
I clenched my fists and watched the frail Kotil unfasten his whip. He was the only one in the village who had one—as the herder of our small jeyr flock—and the only one who knew how to use it.
And no, I won't take revenge on him. His trembling hands and sweat-soaked face said enough. For him, being executioner was punishment—maybe more than for those he struck. I couldn't blame him. For lacking strength to defy the chief? None of us have that strength. Not even me.
Hating everyone? I already do. All these men lowering their eyes, turning pale like Uncle Di. All of them, too weak to speak out against what's happening here. I hate myself too—for being unable to protect the one I love.
"Legrad," someone called from behind. I turned—and saw Shigo. His fist sent me sprawling into the sand. Then his boot drove into my head, pressing it down.
"Boss says you're not to lift your eyes from the ground," he said. "Remember his will, trash."
The humiliation didn't stop. That morning, I watched my mother's punishment from where I lay, face buried in blood-soaked sand. Shigo didn't lift his foot from my head until the final lash had snapped through the air.