The next morning, Sol woke up before anyone else the next day, just as the sky was turning a hazy, pre-dawn grey.
He lay still for a moment, running a diagnostic on his body. He stretched his arms, twisted his torso, and waited for the sharp, stabbing pains of broken ribs.
They didn't come.
Amazing.
As expected, his unnatural healing factor had worked its relentless magic through the night. He was almost 80% healed. The sharp, agonizing fractures from the night before had dulled to ignorable aches. Unless he made a massive, violent movement, he was perfectly functional.
He stood up silently, grabbing the clay water jar without disturbing the sleeping women, tip-toed away, moving like an action movie spy (which was purely his imagination).
Getting water was the excuse, but his true purpose was intelligence. The riverbank in the morning was the village's news hub. If he wanted to know where Vurok was, or what the tribe was planning, that was where he needed to be.
