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Hiyan's mind was made up.

It was himself over Malok, not the other way around. Not anymore.

A sharp slap to the back of his head reignited the anger that had just begun to settle. He whipped around to see Malok standing behind him, a triumphant grin stretched across his face. The sight both confused and enraged him further. Whatever Malok was up to, it couldn't be good—it never was. True, Hiyan had never questioned his intentions before. He'd even helped with Malok's schemes, no matter how twisted or cruel. But something had changed. The illusion of a bond, one that had never truly existed, had kept him blind. Not anymore.

Why should he take part in another's sins? he asked himself. Malok was no longer a friend—just a stranger. A cruel, selfish stranger who had tried to kill him, repeatedly, and taken satisfaction in his humiliation every time.

"Ah…" Malok exhaled, settling beside Hiyan and leaning against the same rough tree trunk. "That's it. Now we can rest, knowing we'll succeed when the sun rises."

Hiyan stayed silent, defiant, refusing to meet his gaze.

Malok didn't notice. He was too lost in his own fantasies, drunk on the vision of a bright future. "I've finally cleared away all my obstacles, my friend!" he said, nudging Hiyan's shoulder with enthusiasm. Hiyan swayed but kept his eyes fixed on the rock he'd been staring at since he woke up—alive, against all odds.

He should have been dead.

He remembered the thrashing, the desperate fight to survive. The way Malok had watched with that cold, calculating look, deliberately avoiding his panicked, pleading eyes. Malok had known he was dying, suffocating in agony. And yet, he'd pressed on, focused on his goal, exploiting Hiyan’s weakened state and the fatigue that had clung to him ever since that drunken brawl had sapped his strength.

All this time, Hiyan had been walking hand in hand with his own death—and like a fool, he'd let it happen.

Hiyan shook his head, forcing the memories away.

That Hiyan was dead. He had died when Malok had so mercilessly choked the life out of him. The one who woke up afterward—the one sitting beside the traitor now—was someone new. Someone more ambitious than Malok could ever imagine. Someone who would make him pay for every betrayal. Someone crueler, more calculating, and far more dangerous than Malok could ever be.

He tuned out Malok's self-congratulatory prattle—the boasts, the cackles, the smug remarks. Until…

Malok nudged him again, harder this time, his expression shifting to one of concern. "Are you still tired from everything earlier?" he asked.

Hiyan hesitated, unsure if the concern was genuine or just another ploy. Was Malok testing him, probing for weakness? Would he try to finish what he started?

"Um… no," Hiyan answered, struggling to sound convincing. The question lingered in his mind: was Malok gauging his vulnerability? His limbs still ached, his lungs burned, and any exertion would likely push his battered body past its limits. Was that Malok’s plan all along? To weaken him, to rob him of his ability to fight back?

Malok nudged him again, this time with a playful grin. "Who are you dreaming about?"

Hiyan knew he needed to tread carefully. First, he had to assess Malok’s intentions. Second, he had to buy himself time. Curling his lips into a smirk, he replied, "Your sister-in-law."

Malok’s demeanor shifted instantly, the playful grin giving way to a hard, serious stare. Hiyan’s pulse quickened. Had he gone too far? Had he made a mistake? Every nerve in his body screamed at him to be alert—he was sitting next to a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. His fingers trembled involuntarily.

"Don’t even think about her," Malok warned coldly. "She’ll soon be your sister, and it’s a sin to have intimate thoughts about a sister."

Hiyan blinked, confusion washing over him. "My sister? Creda? But how?" His voice was hoarse, his throat still raw from the earlier ordeal. He resisted the urge to claw at his neck, knowing it would only make him gag.

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Malok’s expression softened, a strange shyness creeping onto his face. "What else would you call your best friend’s wife?" he said.

Hiyan stared at him, his mind racing. Best friend? Wife? What twisted game was Malok playing now?

Hiyan’s eyebrows furrowed as his mind snapped into overdrive. What was Malok talking about? Why would Creda marry him? Questions swirled in his head, but his instincts warned him to stay quiet.

"Ah… this occasion calls for a drink. Come, let’s head to the warehouse." Malok sprang to his feet and yanked Hiyan up along with him.

Hiyan winced as he stood, his legs trembling under his weight. Pain flared in his muscles—he must have sprained a tendon or two during the struggle. Malok led the way through the woods, taking a shortcut to the village. Hiyan followed, limping behind, watching the peculiar bounce in Malok's step. What was he so happy about? Had he already killed Nox? Was that why he'd gone back to the dock earlier?

It took only a few minutes to reach the fields on the village's western edge. Soon, they were moving stealthily through the village toward the warehouse. The trees, bushes, and crops swayed gently in the cold breeze. The sky, still heavy with clouds, threatened rain but held back. Lanterns in the houses had gone out, signaling the women and children were asleep. Yet the distant crackle of a bonfire hinted that the men were still awake beneath the Great Banyan.

From the tree's core, concealed by its countless prop roots, no one would spot them. But anyone wandering near the grove's edge might catch sight of their movement. Malok and Hiyan kept to the shadows. Hiyan couldn’t understand why they were being so cautious just to fetch drinks. Drinking wasn’t exactly a crime compared to the other things they’d done.

Inside the warehouse, Malok tossed his damp blanket near the door. He stretched and scanned the racks lining the walls. "Ah… here it is," he said, lifting two pots of fermented palm wine he had stored there earlier that evening. The pots, their necks covered with thick fabric tied with rope, seemed heavy. Malok turned to Hiyan, his face alight with satisfaction, and winked.

"Let’s take these back to the dock," he said, securing the pots with a rope strung over his neck. The pots swung like pendulums at his sides as he grabbed them firmly to keep them from colliding.

They retraced their path through the village, this time heading back to the dock. The journey was darker now—the torches had been taken by the men, along with Nox. Over the horizon, the first hints of dawn peeked through. The black sky lightened to gray, though thick rain clouds still obscured the rising sun.

Malok sat cross-legged on the wooden dock under the roof, gesturing for Hiyan to join him. He removed the rope from his neck and untied the fabric covering the pots. Handing one to Hiyan, he grinned proudly.

"To the dawn of victory," Malok said, clinking his pot against Hiyan’s.

Hiyan forced a smile, his heart heavy with unease. He hadn’t touched his drink, instead watching Malok down his with enthusiasm. Fear gnawed at him—what if Malok intended to get him drunk and slit his throat? But Hiyan’s pride wouldn’t let him admit the thought, not even to himself.

"What’s the occasion?" Hiyan asked, his pot still untouched.

Malok wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after a long gulp. "Told ya already!" he said with a smirk.

Hiyan exhaled a frustrated breath. What had Malok done? Why was he so damn happy? He waited until Malok had emptied more than half of his pot and was tipsy from the drink before trying again.

"Why are you so damn happy?" Hiyan asked, his voice sharp with suspicion. "Did you kill someone or what?"

"Me?" Malok pointed at his chest, then burst into maniacal laughter. "I don’t dirty my hands like that. It was just an accident. I never killed anyone." He took another swig from his pot. "Not with my hands, anyway." Malok stared at his hands in drunken confusion.

Hiyan’s heart pounded. That phrase gnawed at his mind. He set his own untouched pot down and shifted closer to Malok. "What do you mean by that? ‘Not with your hands’? What are you trying to say?"

Did Malok actually kill someone? On purpose?

Despite everything Malok had done earlier, Hiyan struggled to believe he was friends with a cold-blooded murderer. A troublemaker? Absolutely. But a killer?

"The crocodiles are going to kill him, not me," Malok muttered, grinning.

The words hit Hiyan like a blow. He realized Malok was talking about his brother, Nox. A wave of relief swept over him. The crocodiles—yes, the lake was infested with them. For a moment, he had feared something far worse.

But Malok wasn’t finished.

"I just cut the lifeline of the raft he was on," Malok added with a chuckle.

Hiyan’s eyes widened in shock and horror. The lifeline—a marvel of Tuscanian craftsmanship—was the very core of the raft’s structure. It held the logs together, ensuring they stayed unified against the current. No matter how strong the flow or how aged the wood, the lifeline could withstand it all. As long as it was intact, the raft could carry any reasonable load across any reasonable distance.

But if the lifeline was severed?

The raft wouldn’t break apart immediately. It would weaken, disintegrating slowly, almost imperceptibly—until it was too late.

Until that night, the rafts had only been used to ferry coconuts from the ponds to the village. The river was shallow and forgiving; even if a lifeline failed, the worst they’d lose were a few sacks of coconuts—sacks they could recover with another raft.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, the lifeline was the difference between life and death.

The raft wasn’t carrying coconuts. It was carrying people—Nox and four other innocent men, none of whom had anything to do with Malok’s schemes.

And tonight, they weren’t sailing the calm, shallow waters of the river. They were venturing into the deep, uncharted lake.

Malok had severed the lifeline.

Which meant…

Tonight marked the deaths of four innocent people—possibly more.

And Malok was drinking to celebrate it.