The fog before Otan's gate lies like a burial shroud across the road.
Liyen hesitates, her fingers clawing into the fabric of her hood. "I won't show my face," she says quietly. "Something terrible happened in Yulong. Perhaps they won't let me in otherwise."
Tessa throws her a sidelong glance. Her voice cuts sharp, almost impatient. "Do what you think right. But hurry."
The gate is lower than Yulong's, the wooden beams black with age and damp. A guard steps from the shadows—not Bramk, but another, younger, with a scar that divides his face in two.
"Travelers?" His gaze slides over the group. "We've already had guests from Marenlor. Many guests."
"We're looking for them," Tessa says. "My husband—Tarin—my little sparks—are they here?"
The guard smiles. It is the wrong smile, the smile of a man who has won a wager. "Of course. He rests. They all rest." He steps aside, the heavy door groaning open. "Welcome to Otanheim. Or Otan, as we call it."
The courtyard is too still. No dogs bark, no children call. Only the wind brushes across empty clotheslines.
Then a second man emerges from the fog—Varnok—tall, with a scar on his face. He sniffs. Actually sniffs, like a hound picking up a trail.
"Clean," he murmurs before Tessa. Then at Loran. "Also clean." His eyes find Liyen. He draws closer, too close, his nose nearly at her throat. He smells the shadow in the girl with the hood, but he also smells the traitor in his own blood. "You," he says. "You smell different."
Liyen's heart hammers against her ribs. She feels her hand moving unconsciously toward her bow—then stops the motion.
"Where do you come from?" The man circles her. "Remove the hood. Or do you have something to hide?"
"I am no monster," Liyen says. Her voice does not tremble. "I only feared rejection because of my heritage."
Varnok's eyes narrow. Then he nods, as if hearing an inner voice. "The weapons," he says to Bramk, who has now appeared as well. "All weapons. You'll get them back when you leave."
When you leave. Not when you leave again. Liyen notices the difference, but she says nothing. She has no choice. The dagger she wears beneath her dress remains undiscovered—a small comfort.
Bramk claps his hands. His joy seems genuine, and that makes it unsettling. "The moon! Look how beautifully red it glows! The feast awaits!"
"In the cellar," Varnok says. "Follow me."
Down the stairs, it smells of earth and old wine. The feast hall is larger than expected, the tables laden with meat that looks too red, and tankards giving off a metallic scent. Local guests already sit—too motionless, too straight, like puppets that will only awaken at the right word.
"Where is Tarin?" Tessa's voice cuts through the silence.
Bramk smiles. "He comes. Who would want to miss such a feast?"
Loran lets out an admiring sound. "So much meat. So much..." He reaches for a piece that looks like smoked haunch.
"The manners!" Bramk's voice lashes. Loran jerks back as if he has touched a snake. "We wait for the other guests."
Liyen looks to the window. It is high, too high for climbing, and barred. Outside, the sky changes color. Not gradually, not like a sunset—no, the moon itself seems to bleed, a swift, sick discoloration from silver to dark crimson.
"The moon," she whispers. "It grows redder and redder."
Bramk's grin widens. "Then it is time."
"Did he hear what I said?"
He raises his hand. A rumbling, the closing of heavy bolts. The doors—they have doors that no one noticed—fall shut.
A host beside Liyen laughs. It is a guttural, strangled sound. "The feast begins," he says. "There is no escape."
Some of the villagers laugh with him. But different from the Noctusborn. Wilder, untamed.
Tessa seizes Liyen's arm. Her fingers dig in tight. "What is happening here?" she asks, but her voice is not a question—it is a statement.
Liyen knows. She has known since Varnok sniffed at her, since the villagers sat too motionless, since the moon turned too swiftly. She knows, but she does not speak it aloud, for speaking the word would make it true.
Instead, she reaches for the hidden dagger and thinks of Yaoming. Of the small Qi-Flame that led her here.
The red moon shines through the high window and dyes the meat upon the plates dark.