0.17

The area beneath the Great Banyan bustled with activity.

Chief Marnoell’s gaze settled on Malok, his expression a careful mask of stoicism, though disdain seeped into his every movement. "I assume neither of you have anything more pressing to do," he said, addressing both Malok and Hiyan.

Marnoell had never harbored a high opinion of the pair. Their intentions were often suspect, their actions questionable. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Malok’s flaws stemmed from his association with Hiyan—or if Hiyan’s recklessness was a reflection of Malok’s influence. You know, sometimes, friendships can shape a man; other times, they shatter him.

Malok nudged Hiyan’s ribs, forcing his friend’s attention away from the departing group of young men and back to the chief. Marnoell cleared his throat impatiently. When Hiyan finally wiped the smirk from his face and focused on him, Marnoell turned his piercing gaze back to Malok.

"Your mother-in-law deserves to know what’s happening to her daughter," Marnoell began, his voice cold and measured. "You’ve already failed in your duties—as a husband, as a Tuscanian, and as the man of your house. At the very least, fulfill your obligations as a dependable son-in-law. Go to her. Reassure her as best you can. She’s not only your wife’s mother but also your paternal aunt. Do you remember that?”

Malok nodded stiffly, his face betraying little emotion.

Marnoell returned the nod. "Then act accordingly."

His attention shifted to Hiyan. "And you," he said. “If the rain continues through the night, Lavalthon’s banks may break before dawn. If that happens, our village will flood again, just as it did last year. Go to the women and tell them to gather their children from Calla’s. Make sure they stay indoors until further notice.”

Hiyan shook his head vigorously, his exaggerated gesture bordering on comical. Marnoell rolled his eyes, exasperated, and turned his attention elsewhere, clearly done with the exchange.

Malok and Hiyan moved away from the heart of the Banyan grove toward the village. Hiyan limped behind, hopping awkwardly over the twisted roots that jutted from the earth, each leap more ungainly than the last.

When they were out of earshot, Hiyan broke the silence. "I never thought you were so fond of Turo," he said, his voice light as if testing the waters.

Malok shot him a withering glare, sharp enough to make Hiyan falter.

Hiyan swallowed hard. "I mean," he stammered, "you seemed really worried back there. I didn’t know you had this… family-oriented side." He trailed off, mumbling.

"Family, my foot," Malok growled, stomping harder with each step.

Hiyan blinked, confusion knitting his brow. "Then why did you…?"

A sinister smile crept across Malok’s face, curling his lips in a way that made Hiyan’s discomfort deepen. "I was laying the foundation," Malok said, his tone low, calculated.

Hiyan’s expression twisted further in perplexity. "Foundation? I don't understand what—"

"Good thing you don’t understand," Malok cut him off sharply. "If even a dimwit like you could figure it out, then it’d already be doomed." His eyes glinted with cold amusement as he quickened his pace. "Now shut up and keep moving."

Hiyan struggled to keep up, his limp making him almost stumble over the protruding roots. He had been the mate who, during a drunken brawl with Malok, got stabbed in the thigh. When bystanders urged him to remove the blade before Kaius arrived, the act had worsened the damage. He had lost so much blood that he nearly died before Kaius managed to stabilize him.

The aftermath had changed him forever.

His injured leg grew thinner and weaker over time, forcing him to rely on his arms for support. Each step became a calculated effort—dragging the injured foot, leaning on his stronger leg, and lifting the weaker one as he moved forward. His limp, a funny, pathetic mix of shuffling and hopping, had become a part of his identity.

The villagers had thought the fight would shatter Malok and Hiyan’s friendship. They expected enmity to replace camaraderie, but Hiyan still clung to Malok. While many admired his loyalty, Malok’s reputation took a hit. People began to see him as who he really was—selfish, harsh and domineering. Malok, who had always relished pushing Hiyan around, grew more abrasive after the incident. If anything, Hiyan’s injuries made him easier to exploit. Yet, Hiyan didn’t seem to mind. He continued to follow his friend, his admiration undiminished despite the growing fear of Malok’s volatile moods.

Rain had stopped, leaving the roofs of the houses drenched and dripping. The droplets of water pooled on the muddy ground, turning it into a squelchy mess. The light, cold breeze left them both shivering, despite the thick blankets wrapped around them.

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When they reached his mother-in-law’s hut, Malok stopped in front of the weathered wooden slab that passed for a door. The slab was rotting at the edges, the wood damp from the rain. He hesitated, his hand hovering for a moment in disgust before he rapped on the wood twice.

From inside, there was movement. Moments later, the slab shifted slightly. A short, feminine figure stepped into view, silhouetted by the dim light of the hut’s interior. Her tone was sharp, biting. "You! What do you want?"

She stood blocking the entrance, her small frame brimming with hostility.

Malok cast her a smile, one that aimed for charm but landed closer to insincerity. "Creda, um… is your mother inside?" he asked feigning warmth.

"No. She's dead. We're both dead," Creda replied flatly, gripping the wooden slab as if to shut him out. She began sliding it back into place.

But Malok was quicker. He caught her wrist, his thumb rubbing the edge of her palm with deliberate slowness. Creda flinched, her face contorted with disgust. "Let go of me!" she screeched, trying to wrench her arm free.

Malok ignored her protests. "I don’t know about your mother, but you seem more alive than ever." His grip tightened as he pulled her closer with a smirk playing on his lips.

Creda’s eyes narrowed, her muscles tensing. She shifted her stance, slanting the wooden slab she still held so it wedged against the doorframe. Pressing her foot into the ground, she leaned her weight into it, effectively anchoring herself in place.

Realizing her resistance, Malok changed tactics. Instead of pulling her outward, he leaned inward, invading her space. The scent of the water lily tucked behind her ear hit him—its delicate fragrance cloying, almost mocking against the stench of rain-soaked decay that surrounded him. The flower, oversized against her youthful features, only made her look smaller, more childlike. But her eyes burned with defiance.

When Malok drew closer, Creda gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat forcefully. The spit struck him directly in the eye, wet and humiliating.

Malok released her wrist with a sharp expletive, stumbling back as he wiped at his face. "You little—" He choked on his words, shaking his head in disgust. "You man-starved witch!"

Creda shoved the wooden slab fully aside and stepped out of the house and onto the damp ground. She gripped the slab in both hands, hoisting it as if ready to use it.

Hiyan, watching the scene unfold, stepped back instinctively. His jaw hung slack, and he raised his hands in a defensive posture.

Despite her small frame and the absurd size of the slab, Creda looked menacing—dangerous even.

"Touch me again," she snarled, "and it’ll be the end of you."

"Creda?" An elderly voice drifted from inside the hut, softening Creda's otherwise hardened demeanor. Her eyes, however, never left Malok and Hiyan, as if they were prey to be watched carefully. "Who's that, little one?"

Creda pressed her foot down into the drenched mud. She leaned backward slightly, her body still bristling with tension. "Just a couple cursed spawns of swamp demons, mother. Don’t worry. I’ll see them out."

"Who's this girl troubling today?" The voice came again, exasperated now, along with the sound of vessels clinking as if the woman were busy setting them down. There was the shuffle of footsteps, and in moments, a figure appeared at the doorframe. A woman with a plain, sorrowful face peered around the gap where the wooden slab had been. Her hair was tied into a low bun, but stray strands framed her face, giving her an air of melancholy. She gasped when she saw Malok and Hiyan standing there.

"Creda, what are you doing?" The woman stepped forward, grabbing her daughter by the arm and pulling her aside with more force than expected. She then took the slab from Creda's hands and leaned it against the outer wall of the hut. She turned her attention back to Malok. "Please forgive her. She's just…"

"Brave," Malok finished for her, slightly amused. "Braver than any woman I’ve ever seen."

The woman looked away, embarrassed, her hands wringing nervously. "You're too kind to us," she said, managing a thin, polite smile.

"Yes, so kind that he threw your other daughter out to live like a tramp," Creda muttered from behind her mother.

The woman glared at Creda. "Shush now. It’s going to be over soon. And when it’s over, he’ll bring your sister back to live with him. I trust him completely. Won’t you, son?" She looked at Malok desperately.

Malok hesitated, swallowing a lump in his throat, and wiped off the remnants of Creda’s spit still clinging to his face. "I would love to," he said, a dramatic sigh escaping him as he touched his chest. "I already miss her. My Samora." Creda rolled her eyes in mockery. "But…"

"But what?" The woman asked nervously, her eyes widening.

Malok paused, his hesitation only serving to deepen the tension. Creda's patience wore thin. Her ears had perked at the "but," and she was growing increasingly impatient with his theatrics.

"But what?" Creda snapped.

"I'm afraid that’s not going to happen," Malok finally said.

The woman’s expression shifted from anxiety to confusion. Creda shifted her weight, unimpressed with the exchange. Hiyan, uninterested, shifted his stance, his gaze wandering away from the conversation.

I don’t understand," the woman said. "Is the baby born yet? Is it a boy or a girl? Samora’s doing well, right? What’s… what’s going to happen now? I mean, the prophecy—has it gone wrong? The baby… my grandson… does he look human?" She stacked question upon question, each one more frantic than the last.

Creda placed a calming hand on her mother’s shoulder, gently easing her back. The woman’s breath steadied as her daughter’s touch gave her a moment of solace.

Malok flinched, a tinge of mockery creeping into his being, though he struggled to mask his true feelings. His voice remained unnervingly sweet. "Actually, Aunt Bouma, we don't know anything at all. I mean, you remember when I complimented Creda, calling her the bravest girl I’ve ever seen?" He nodded, as though seeking her confirmation.

The woman mirrored his actions, her eyes welling with unspoken emotions as her hands instinctively moved to clutch her chest.

"I was wrong," Malok continued, his smile never faltering. "Your sister is far braver than you, Creda. No offense," he added with a casual glance at her.

Creda and Bouma both waited, the silence stretching as they anticipated his next words.

"Because she’s doing something not even a man would dare to do." He paused, his eyes flicking from one woman to the other, a malicious smile curling on his lips. "She’s crossing Lavalthon, seeking a more gruesome death—for herself and the baby."