Only once the howling flames of the dust-explosion had burned themselves out did Keter allow oxygen entry to their small alcove. Not a moment too soon, either. Immediately, he sucked in a great lungful of air the moment it blew inside, almost hyperventilating. Keter already felt lightheaded and wonky from holding his breath as long as he had. Whenever they reached their destination, Keter would make certain to properly cultivate his new body to prevent further shortcomings.

With his breathing calming, he reached into the hole’s far side and retrieved his trusted lantern, stuffed away in a fissure for safe-keeping. Exhaustion had thoroughly rooted inside his body; his magic drained from its strenuous use. The amount Keter could hold of the ethereal energy was a great limiter to his options.

He took a lick of heat from his blood and felt himself growing colder before the wick finally caught flame. Accuracy of magic went down if he lost focus. Like then, being tired as he was.

The lantern glowed, flooding the small space in an almost healing light. Keter saw Virrah huddled in the corner, almost passed-out for the previous lack of oxygen. It came to no surprise that her young and small body couldn’t handle the suffocation well. After pressing his hand to the side of her neck, Keter confirmed her pulse and breathing. She still had her uses, and would not be allowed to die, yet.

He realized, though, that the plan had been more of a gamble than would be ideal. Even if he had tested whether he could rid a small space of oxygen, he had not been certain whether he could’ve kept the stray flames out of their hide. No matter the fire’s furry, without air it could not find purchase. For the same reason had it now died, before fresh winds reclaimed the earthen crypt.

Keter took his time to regain his senses, relaxing against the rough wall while waiting on Virrah to awaken. When the faint stench of burned flesh reached his nose, Virrah shuddered, coughed and squirmed upright. Fighting for her lungs to work. A few firm thumps on her back had her breathing normally after a spell. Her eyes were still hazy, and her movement stiff. But Keter judged her fit to walk the last stretch to wherever they were headed.

His lantern’s beam scared the shadows off to a comfortable distance, showing the battle’s spoils clear. The walls were cracked and burned black where the fire had burned the brightest. Even now, some stubborn flames still lingered, dotting the cave’s bowels like glowing fingers.

The smell’s origin was easily found. Giant and charred and still smoldering, the Prowl’s abused carcass sprawled lifelessly on the singed tiles. Most skin and feather had been burned away, even a large part of flesh had been ripped apart by the explosion. Its thick skull was yet whole, though. Just as the intimidating talons, forever desperately clawing at nothing.

Keter snorted and spat on the beast’s corpse and growled, “Heal your way out of that.”

His blade should be somewhere under the dust and rubble too, and he was about to go looking for it before Virrah stopped him, eagerly pointing at the Prowl’s skull.

“Griefva! Griefvoh rehm Griefva ghedel! Vor Dorgha!” Her eyes had again caught their intelligent gleam, blue like the summer sky and almost brimming in the dull cave. Keter looked at her crossly while she kept repeating herself, tapping the monster’s beak. His best guess was that she wanted him to take the cursed weight along for the ride. Whenever would this woman stop with her ridiculous demands?

But he still did not have any other option but to comply. That, and he hoped there was some sense in all the things she made him do. Keter left the fascinated Virrah with the smoking corpse and went to fetch his blade.

He found the thing lying in the dirt quite a way’s back. The explosion had reached here too, and it was evident as the blade was caked in soot and slightly chipped for being tossed around by the coursing flames. The ragged leather that had at one point wrapped the grip was dust, and only bare metal remained. Seemed like every day he was left with less than before.

He tentatively touched the weapon, uncertain if it were still hot and would burn at his fingers. Burns were some of the most awful wounds one could be inflicted with. At worse, nerves would be damaged to the point you lost all sense in them. Good luck firing accurately when you can’t feel the trigger-pull.

Luckily, the hilt was cool to the touch. Keter arrived back at the Prowl’s scarred skull and after gesturing Virrah aside, started wriggling the blade into its spine; severing it. After which he cut off the bottom jaw. If he was going to lumber this thing around, he’d take as little of it as possible.

To his surprise, though, it was Virrah who hauled the thing onto her shoulder, albeit with a great deal of effort. The girl’s small frame was trembling under the great bulk, and Keter was certain that if he waited long enough she’d be crushed by the remains.

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She still had her uses, and Keter would be damned if he were going to let her slow him down. Grudgingly, Keter took the largest part of the bulk and had it rest on his shoulder, dividing the weigh somewhat. Virrah made some appreciative sound in return.

When they reached the Prowl’s lair, Keter noticed a side tunnel the beast had been sleeping in front of. Almost as if guarding it. They say curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back. But Keter doubted he’d be saved for the joy of discovering something interesting. But even from the entrance did he notice chunks of raw metal gleam in the cave’s wall. Seemed much like a crow, the Prowl enjoyed collecting shiny things.

Not one, but two moons shone overhead; One purple, high and small, the other a deep blue, low yet huge. Virrah greeted them with a smile and some gurgling words Keter did not understand. He did not remember the second blue one. Perhaps it only showed at specific dates?

Walking outside was perhaps less pleasant than Keter had expected. He had imagined himself smiling and frolicking under the clear, star-clustered sky after his days devoid of fresh air. Like much in life, it was disappointing, and even the peculiar lower moon could not cheer him. After all, he was laboring most of the skull’s weight with him, sweating and cursing under his rasping breath.

Long had been his marches in training, and harder where the ones after. Days of climbing hills and mountains followed by nights of descending them, only to repeat the process for weeks on end. Sleeping only the barest minimum or not at all, and attacking outposts, antennas, patrols or logistic convoys as much as possible on the way. Going through it all like a machine, no mind for the body. Made him think now wasn’t so bad. Still, he coveted a good night’s rest and a decent meal plan none the less. The hurt of the past does not lessen the aches of the present.

*

Slickleaf felt like she was dying, her body a hollowed mess. The traditional garb of the Virrah, pelts and cord, were ragged and rank with sweat and filth. She smelled much like the boys-become-men after their quarter-turn in the wild, spent hunting beasts and the like. Seemed like ages since all that had reached her nose were strong herbs and spicy salves.

Every step had her knees almost buckle, feet ridden with blisters she couldn’t heal or care for. The last of her bandages and salves had been used to aid the God’s wounds that had reopened after his battle with the Herald.

She suppressed a groan as a sharp rock dug in the sole of her soft, leather boot. Once the Godling arrived at Hollow’s Maw, things would change significantly, and Slickleaf wanted to be a part of it. She had no choice, if she wished to survive and grow. If she held herself as a dependable aid, the godling would certainly see her worth. Though, Slickleaf admitted, she wasn’t doing the best of jobs at that, since he had helped her the moment she’d lifted the ripping thing.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, seeing his skin – countless scars and wounds hidden by a patchwork of Band-Aids. Slickleaf doubted even Grog-Je’cher, the Chief Hunter, had as much proof of battle as the Black-haired God.

Still, she couldn’t help but worry. Even if they showed the Herald’s charred skull as evidence of the God’s might, just as his silent mantra, Slickleaf wasn’t certain if they would accept him. For too long has man been abandoned by the divine, left to scuttle in obscurity and grasp at nothing more than legend and folklore, preached by the Elder Shaman.

The God halted, and the blackened head fell to the earth, pulling Slickleaf from her ponder. He grabbed her by the shoulder, dragging her down as he pressed his finger to his lips, hissing. Slickleaf hadn’t hunted a day in her life, but still had enough wit about her to grasp his intent.

The forest was quiet, other than the usual wind’s howling and animal’s chittering that broke through. But it wasn’t long before the God pointed out a shape past some shrubs. First, it was a blurry spot in Slickleaf’s eyes. But after some squinting at it, her eyes adapted, and she saw a hunter prowl the forest, spear in hand. His two companions shouldn’t be far off, all on the early morning hunt.

The god dragged his thumb across his throat, showing a questioning expression. Slickleaf shook her head quickly. Wouldn’t want him to decimate them, after all, and the forest along with it.

“Wait here.” Slickleaf told him as she rose. But he didn’t understand, and instead hauled the skull back on his shoulder with a grunt, nodding to her. She cursed her own shortcomings. If only she was able to actually talk to him. People of her Clan, any Clan, were most distrusting of outsiders. Never mind that some people of Hollow’s Maw hated her guts and wouldn’t be shy of disposing of her in the woods, after taking their time.

She stuffed her left hand in the pelt’s hidden pocket, sewn along the folds and invisible to all those who didn’t know it to be there. To everyone but her and Silva. The warm sensation of the fire wreath salts tinkling her fingertips reassured her. If they’d try anything, the God’s awesome mantra wouldn’t be their only concern.

As Slickleaf left the confines of the thicket, she contemplated whether she should smile to greet them. She ended up deciding against it; she’d never done much smiling in the past and starting now would probably only make these hunters distrustful. Slickleaf neared them just as she would’ve before, when she was still the Owl’s assistant; eyes cold and chin high.

The first hunter to spot them instantly turned and lowered his spear at them. She felt the God tense next to her. To whom do you pray when it’s the Gods that needed calming? Slickleaf wouldn’t know. She never cared much for the divine. Something she regretted now. She whispered a silent prayer to Silva, instead.

“What are you doing back, Slickleaf?” The man barked, loud enough to wake the earth from its eternal slumber. The other hunters matched his posture, spears angled at her.

“I’ve returned, for the prophesy had been fulfilled.” She said level. The hunter opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out once he saw the bone head. They all gawked at it before regarding the one who carried it. Hair, black as the Herald’s plumes. Eyes, eternal as the Hollow’s pitch. They knew, then, that men stood amongst a God, and dropped to their knees.