The evening air was cool and quiet when Luciel and Mino returned to their small wooden hut at the edge of the camp. The faint light of the campfires shimmered between the cracks of the shacks nearby, dancing across the dirt ground in shifting patterns.
Inside, Mino squatted beside their fire pit, her silver hair catching the orange glow. She was grinning from ear to ear, carefully counting and arranging their spoils from the day.
"Look at this, Luciel! We caught so many today!" she said proudly, holding up a squirming little lizard by its tail.
They had truly done well. Between them and the tricolor lizard Luciel had tamed, they'd captured forty-five small lizards—twenty-three caught by the tricolor itself, the rest by the pair of them.
And that wasn't all. Mino had also managed to trap three fat mice, each no bigger than a hand but still precious in a place where hunger gnawed at everyone.
Luciel sat near the fire, sharpening his saber with a slow, steady rhythm. Sparks flickered and died in the shadows.
He glanced at the girl, her small hands deftly separating scales from meat, and asked quietly, "Have you always eaten lizards like these?"
"Mm-hmm." She nodded without looking up. "Sometimes, if we're lucky, there's a bit of hare meat. But that doesn't happen often."
Her tone was light, but Luciel could hear the years of struggle tucked between her words.
Today had been a bountiful day, but she had mentioned before that most days she caught only two or three lizards—barely enough to survive.
He paused mid-stroke, the blade gleaming in the firelight.
"Are you full?" he asked after a moment.
The girl blinked, confused. "Full?" she echoed softly. She tilted her head, thinking for a moment, then frowned, as if the word itself was strange to her.
"I… don't know what that feels like," she admitted at last.
Her voice was gentle, matter-of-fact—but beneath it, there was something hollow.
"I've never eaten enough to know what being full feels like."
The words hit Luciel harder than he expected. For a moment, the firelight seemed to flicker dimmer, and the rhythmic rasp of the whetstone against steel faltered. He looked at her small frame, the way her shoulders curved inward as she focused on her task, and felt an unfamiliar irritation rising—not at her, but at the world that had made her say something like that so calmly.
Without realizing it, he threw the sharpening stone aside, the clatter startling Mino.
She looked up, startled. "Luciel? What's wrong?"
He exhaled slowly, forcing his tone to remain even. "Nothing. I just… need some air. I'll take a walk around the camp."
Sliding his saber back into its sheath, he stood and slung his worn backpack over his shoulder.
Mino looked up from the fire, concern flickering in her sapphire eyes. "Be careful, okay?"
"I will."
He gave a small nod, then stepped outside into the deepening night.
---
The camp lay still under a starless sky. There was no moon tonight—only the thick blanket of clouds that had lingered since morning. The darkness suited Luciel fine; it made it easier to move unseen.
A faint smell of roasting meat wafted through the air. Warm light leaked from the cracks in some of the wooden huts, but most were dark and silent. From a few came the steady sound of deep, exhausted breathing—people who had gone to sleep early, not from peace, but from hunger.
Luciel remembered what Mino had told him: the camp had a hunting team, organized by the leader. They were tasked with bringing back hares, tortoises, wild dogs—anything edible. But whatever they caught didn't go to everyone. It went first to those who worked directly under the leader. The rest had to fend for themselves.
And if you wanted the camp's protection—or access to water—you had to pay taxes.
Luciel understood now why people stayed, despite their suffering. Living alone in the wild was a death sentence. Wolves, beasts, starvation—there were too many dangers. The "tax" wasn't just for food or protection. It was the price of survival.
But the real control, he realized, lay in the water.
The camp leader controlled the only well. Those who paid their dues received their ration—enough to keep them alive. Those who didn't… dried up like the dust beneath their feet.
Luciel's jaw tightened. He was out tonight not only to understand more about the camp's structure but to gather enough water for their journey tomorrow.
They wouldn't stay here much longer.
---
The camp itself was divided into two sections: an outer ring, where the common folk like Mino lived, and an inner enclosure, fenced off by a rough wall of timber and stone. The leader and his hunters resided inside, living off the sweat of everyone else.
Luciel approached the fence, easily scaling it in one silent motion. He landed without a sound, melding into the shadows. His movements were fluid, each step deliberate and measured.
The inner camp was a stark contrast to the outer one. The air was thick with the rich smell of roasted meat. Fires burned bright, casting the silhouettes of well-fed men against the walls of their homes. Laughter and low conversation drifted from behind thin walls, mixing with the crackle of firewood.
Luciel frowned. So much excess in one place, while others don't even know what it means to be full.
He passed one hut, then another. From inside, he could hear the rhythmic creaking of a bed, muffled laughter, the sound of indulgence. He shook his head in quiet disgust.
Finally, he reached the largest building near the center—the leader's house.
It was enormous, at least four hundred square meters, easily the size of a basketball court.
Luciel stared for a moment, his lips curling faintly. "So that's where all the taxes went," he muttered under his breath.
He slipped toward the back corner, choosing a spot hidden by shadow, and climbed effortlessly up onto the roof before dropping down again beside a small windowless chamber.
Inside, the faint glow of firelight flickered. He crouched low, waiting, watching.
---
A maid passed through the hallway, carrying a clay pot filled with water. Luciel followed her movements with practiced patience, keeping to the dark edges of the walls.
His mimic camouflage ability shimmered faintly across his skin and clothing, blending his colors into the dim surroundings. At a distance of only a few meters, he might as well have been invisible.
The maid stopped at a guarded door. A single guard stood watch, his posture lazy but his eyes sharp. She spoke briefly to him, entered the room, and after a few minutes, came out again—her expression dark with annoyance, the clay pot now brimming with fresh water.
Luciel memorized the layout: one entrance, no windows. That must be where they kept the water supply. Useful information.
He followed her again, silent as shadow, until she entered a brightly lit hall.
Inside, four men sat around a wide table, eating. The smell of roasted meat was thick and oily. The maid set the clay pot on the table, then, to Luciel's surprise, reached for a live hare lying beside the dishes. Without hesitation, she slit its throat with a knife, letting its blood flow directly into the pot.
Luciel's expression hardened. Whatever appetite he'd had vanished.
The men, however, seemed unfazed.
The one seated at the head—a man with coarse features and cold, sharp eyes—waved lazily. "Leave us."
The maid bowed and left.
The man—clearly the leader—picked up an earthen bowl, dipped it into the pot, and drank deeply. The thick sound of blood pouring down his throat filled the air.
Luciel stayed hidden, silent, watching through the flickering firelight.
---
When the maid was gone, one of the men leaned forward, his tone hesitant.
"Boss… are we really going to leave this place?"
Another replied, "If we use less water on the crops, we can last a few more months."
A third grumbled, "Those vegetables are a waste of water anyway. We barely get any of them."
The leader slammed his hand down on the table, the sound sharp and final.
"And what then? Stay here and wait to die?" he growled. He filled another bowl with blood and drank again before speaking.
"The underground well will dry up in ten days. When that happens, we'll all die of thirst."
His men exchanged uneasy looks.
"It's too hard to find a new water source," one muttered.
"Then we should go to the Moon Lake Tribe," another said quickly. "They'll take us in. We could join their hunters."
The third nodded. "I agree. At least they have water."
But the leader's eyes turned ice-cold. "Impossible. I won't go crawling to them."
Luciel could read the truth even from the shadows: pride. The kind that would rather watch others die than bow to someone else's rule.
If he went to the Moon Lake Tribe, he'd lose his authority—no longer a lord, just another man in line for rations. That was something his ego would never allow.
"Then what do we do?" one of his men demanded. "We can't just die here!"
"If there's no water, I'm taking my family and leaving for Moon Lake," another said, his voice shaking with frustration.
The leader's gaze turned murderous. "I've already sent men to search for a new source. If they fail to find one in five days…" He paused, his tone deadly calm. "Then, and only then, we'll move."
The others hesitated, but none dared challenge him directly.
"Fine, five days," one finally muttered. "But if you're wrong, we're gone."
They drank a few more bowls of blood, their laughter forced, and left the hall.
---
Luciel remained in the shadows, unmoving. The fire crackled softly, throwing long, shifting patterns across the floor.
He hadn't expected this—the camp's water crisis. The people outside had no idea they were only days away from dying of thirst, while their leader drank blood and hoarded what little remained.
And vegetables? That detail surprised him even more. It meant the inner camp had access to soil damp enough for crops, perhaps near the underground well itself. A clue worth remembering.
Luciel's eyes narrowed. So that's the truth of this place.
The strong lived well, the weak starved quietly, and the only thing holding the fragile balance together was a well that was about to run dry.
He exhaled softly, melted back into the darkness, and vanished as silently as he had come.