Tristan didn't sleep that night.
He sat apart from the others, eyes half open, pretending to rest while the bandits laughed, drank, and finally drifted off. The campfire burned low, soft and red, eating what was left of the wood. Beyond it, the Hygrons shifted — low, heavy sounds, like mountains breathing.
Tristan watched them all from the shadows. The people. The beasts. And the one they called Scarface.
They slept like predators after a feast — full, content, but ready to destroy again when morning came. He wondered if any of them dreamed. He hadn't in years.
The ground beneath him pulsed faintly. It was weaker here, stretched thin under the weight of the camp. But the wind — the wind still moved. It slipped between the torn tents and broken wagons, brushing his face, whispering through the ash.
He'd always thought the world spoke from below. Now he wasn't so sure.
The air carried voices too — not words, not sounds, just a rhythm. Soft. Faint. Constant. Almost like it was watching him.
He glanced toward the largest fire. Scarface sat there, wide awake, staring into the flames like he could see something no one else could. His back was to Tristan, but even from here, Tristan could feel it — that weight that came with his presence.
The man didn't need to look at you to make you feel seen. He didn't need to speak to make you feel small.
Tristan hated it, hated the way everyone bent to him — even the wind seemed to pause when he moved.
He turned away, closing his eyes. But the words wouldn't leave his head —"You're like me."
No. He's not like me. He couldn't be.
***********************
Morning came gray and cold.
Tristan woke up to noises. Metal clanking. Boots stomping. Voices cutting through the fog — rough, sharp, alive with cruelty. The smell of ash, smoke, and sweat filled the air.
People were everywhere, shouting orders, tearing down tents, kicking at the embers of dying fires. For the first time in his life, Tristan was surrounded by people.
Not villagers. Not travelers. People, If that's what you could call them.
Bandits, Thieves, Killers, Faces carved by violence, hands that knew only taking. Men and women who laughed too loud and looked at pain the way others looked at food.
"Hey, Scrawny!" a voice barked. A sack of gear slammed against his chest. "You see, you might be new here, but you don't work, you don't eat. You hear me? "The man laughed — a sound too dry to be human.
Scrawny. That's what they called him now, a name meant for dogs.
He said nothing. Just bent down and started tying ropes, folding canvas, dragging what he could. Every move he made drew eyes. Eyes that didn't trust. They didn't need to say it. They watched his every move — waiting for him to falter, to make a mistake.
He didn't belong here — but neither did they, not really. They were all ghosts walking in borrowed skin.
**********************
The band prepared to move by noon. Scarface stood in the center, still and quiet, like a tower carved from the same ruin he destroyed. Swift was beside him, cold and sharp as ever, barking orders at the men.
Tristan kept his distance, watching. The way they obeyed him. The way the ground seemed to hum when he spoke.
He wanted to understand it — the thing inside Scarface, the power that bent the earth, the power that commanded those monsters. He wanted to know if it was the same voice that had whispered to him all his life.
But every time that thought came, the air around him stirred — slow and deliberate — like it wanted to be heard too.
He looked up. The sky was pale and heavy, clouds hanging low. The wind cut through the camp, slipping past his ear, whispering something he couldn't make out.
He froze. The sound wasn't coming from the ground. It came from above.
He closed his eyes and listened — and for the briefest moment, the noise of the camp faded. No shouting. No beasts. Nothing .Just wind, alive and moving.
And in that silence, something else inside him shifted. Like a pull not from below, like what he sensed from Scarface's power — but from all around.
When he opened his eyes, Scarface was looking right at him.
That faint grin, that same knowing look he'd had since the first time he laid eyes on him.
Tristan's stomach turned. He didn't know what the man saw — but whatever it was, he saw too much.
Scarface gave no command, said no word. Just smiled, then turned his back.
But Tristan knew. Somewhere deep down, they both felt it — the difference between them, but also the similarity.
One belonged to the earth. The other to the wind.
And somewhere, the world itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see which one it would favor more.