The Moonsblood didn't just smell. It vibrated inside the barrels, a low, chemical hum that set my molars on edge. Every time the leather straps creaked against the wood, I flinched, half-expecting the shack to vanish in a bloom of alchemical fire and burnt-sugar smoke.
The humidity was a wet wool blanket over my face. Next to me, Xavier was vibrating for a different reason. His hand kept twitching toward his hilt, his eyes darting toward the treeline where the jungle seemed to be breathing.
The brush didn't rustle; it simply ceased to be an obstacle.
A man stepped into the clearing, bare chest a roadmap of raised, ropey ritual scars. Delo. He didn't look at the barrels. He looked at me—or rather, through me, like he was trying to find the monster his sister had described.
"She called you a demon," Delo said. His voice was a dry rasp, the sound of stone on stone. "A shadow that snapped bone by looking at it. She couldn't sleep for three days because of your memory." He spat into the dirt, his lip curling in a sneer. "Now? You look like a man who's spent too much time nursing a bottle and not enough time sharpening his edge."
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a snarl. My laugh was a short, sharp bark that tasted like salt. "Fear makes every shadow a giant, Delo. If she's disappointed I'm not ten feet tall, tell her I apologize. Now, do we move, or are we waiting for the rot to set in?"
The march was a grueling slog through knee-high muck until a shriek tore the canopy open.
Infernal Prowlers.
They didn't jump; they fell—slick, oil-black shapes with claws like obsidian razors. Xavier hissed, steel singing as it cleared his scabbard.
"Don't," Delo barked, not even looking back. "Watch."
It wasn't a fight. It was a butcher's shop. The tribals moved with a synchronized, sickening grace. A Prowler lunged; a black-wood javelin met it mid-air, the thunk of wood entering meat echoing through the trees. Before the beast could even scream, a Wraith was on it, a jagged blade opening its throat in one fluid motion. No shouting.
No wasted breath. Just the wet slap of bodies hitting the mud and the copper tang of hot blood filling the air.
The village was worse. It sat under the spray of the waterfall, a place of damp stone and even colder eyes. Boyka was there at the gates, his partisans clustered around him like flies on a wound. They didn't move. They just stared, their silence a physical weight pressing against my chest.
We hauled the barrels into Djerma's hall, the stone floor groaning under the weight. I wiped the sweat and grime from my forehead, locking eyes with the Chief.
"Cargo's here," I said, my voice tight. "Your turn."
Djerma looked tired. He glanced at the door, where Boyka's silhouette blocked the light like a bad omen. "I keep my debts, outlander. You'll have the men. But don't expect a parade. Boyka's whispering in the ears of the young—telling them you're an infection. My 'workforce' is thinning by the hour."
I didn't answer. I needed a fix, not a political debate.
Later, I dragged Xavier through the village under the guise of "scouting." In reality, I was looking for leverage. The place was a tinderbox. The air in the healer's hut was thick with the stench of bitter root and steam—the old man was frantically boiling water over a dying fire.
"Silt-fever's a bitch, isn't it?" I muttered as we passed. The healer didn't even look up, just grunted a curse.
I looked up at the agricultural terraces. Men were hauling buckets up the slick, vertical walls, their muscles shaking, faces gray with exhaustion. The crops were yellowing, dying of thirst while a billion gallons of water thundered down the cliff twenty yards away.
"You seeing this, Ray?" Xavier whispered, his voice low and jagged. "They're one bad harvest away from eating us. If Boyka doesn't skin us first."
"I see it," I said, a plan clicking into place with the cold precision of a gear. "They're breaking their backs for drops. We give them a river without the sweat, and Boyka's 'tradition' becomes a very hungry memory. Survival is a hell of a motivator."
"You want to build a pump here? With what tools?"
"Something better. A screw. Simple, effective, and it'll make me look like a god."
"Or a target," Xavier noted. Suddenly, he stiffened. "Hey, who's the shadow?"
I followed his gaze. Saraounia.
She was standing by the drying racks, a knife frozen in her hand. The second our eyes locked, the blood drained from her face. She didn't just run; she scrambled, dropping the blade with a hollow clatter and vanishing toward the lower rope-walks.
"Stay put," I snapped at Xavier.
"Wait—Ray! Dammit. Fine! Hey, old man, where's a guy supposed to... you know... relieve himself around here?"
I ignored him, my boots hammering the rotting wood of the walkways. I caught her at the edge of the abyss, the roar of the falls drowning out the world. She was cornered, her back against the wet rock, eyes wide and glassy.
"Saraounia, stop! I'm not going to hurt you. I'm the one who killed the giant serpent, remember?"
She didn't look relieved. She looked like she was staring at a corpse.
"That's why I'm running!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "It wasn't just a kill. I saw your eyes that day. They weren't human. They were... cold. Something else was looking through you, something that hasn't walked this island in a thousand years."
She sank to her knees, burying her face in her scarred hands.
"You didn't just save me," she whispered, the sound barely audible over the water. "You tore a hole in the world to do it. And now something is coming through."