Moran sat on the hard ground, feeling every ridge and pebble beneath him.
After days of lying on his makeshift bed or slumping over his table, boredom had driven him to seek out any change, however uncomfortable.
Now, he found himself firmly planted on the dusty ground, with no better diversion in sight.
With nothing else to do, he just spent his days drawing more information out of his mind.
It was a menial task.
After a week of nothing, his brain was aching for any kind of stimulation; sadly, none of his guards were willing to provide him with a conversation.
Today his guards were a woman and a man he had seen once before.
The woman was strikingly similar to Kai.
Her skin was an unnatural white, making her look almost like a marble statue.
Her limbs were thin and unusually long, looking like her creator wanted her taller, and in an attempt to make her so, just streched her by her arms and legs a little.
A cloth bandage was wrapped tightly across her chest.
It was hard telling male and female Shapeless apart, at least as long as they had not yet acquired a heart, but her high cheekbones, rounded face, and pointed chin, as well as her higher voice, made it clear what she was.
Beside her stood a shorter man, not much taller than Moran himself.
His skin was a vibrant green, the kind of shade you’d expect from a chameleon before it camoflaged itself.
He wore wide mud-green clothes that were way to big for his smaller body, making him look like he was some kind of bush on legs.
Unlike the woman, he had no visible ears, and his bald head and narrow, angled eyes made him look more like his Heartshape than a human.
Moran liked the two. Both times they had watched over him, they simply ignored him and chatted away.
The man, in particular, was a great source of entertainment. His constant grumbling was a welcome break from the silence.
“This is ridiculous,” the man was just muttering, glancing toward the horizon. “I should be at the celebrations, not babysitting a prisoner.”
The woman leaned on her wooden staff as he she realised her fellow guard was starting the same argument they've had twice during the last four hours.
"Yes, Gaurek, I’m sure the festivities are really missing you,” she scoffed, but with a light teasing edge in her voice. The two of them seemed close.
Moran saw a chance to join in.
“You know, I’m not stopping you. Go ahead and celebrate. No need to sit here on my account,” he offered, trying to inject himself into their conversation. Like all the times before, they ignored him.
The woman continued, her gaze still fixed somewhere in the distance. “We wouldn’t be here if someone hadn’t tried to steal honey from storage. Again.” This time her words sounded accusatory.
“It was meant for you, you know,” the man said, feigning innocence. "How was I supposed to know it was for the celebration later?"
She shot him a withering look. “A nice gesture no one asked for. Be grateful; I’m still willing to stand here,” her tone was dry."
The man took a casual step closer, resting his head on her shoulder with an apologetic smile. “Thank you, Mierie.”
Her expression softened, though she kept her tone stern. “You’re welcome.”
After a moment of leaning against him, she flicked her finger playfully against his chin. “But really, how did you get caught? I thought hiding was your specialty.”
He grinned, rubbing his chin where she’d tapped him before shrugging. “Zaspa caught me. I don't know how she does it but she sees me no matter how I make myself look.”
The white woman snorted. "So that beast is back in town? After what her student said I thought her dead."
"As if a beast like her can actually die. She looked horrible, but when she caught me, Aurora had already fixed her up."
They traded a few more lighthearted insults about their fellow clanmates, their quiet laughter filling the empty air between them.
Their banter, however, was abruptly cut short as Groll approached.
At the sight of him, both guards immediately pulled away from each other, straightening their backs and snapping into position.
Their faces turned cold and professional, every trace of their brief camaraderie wiped clean, as if it had never happened at all.
Groll looked just as Moran remembered, except this time he was clear and distinct, no longer a blurry figure.
The man was tall enough to be called enourmous, with shoulders wider than Moran's two guardians combined.
He wore a white robe-like garment with a blue trim, which was opened in the front to reveal a massive, muscular chest.
His pants were made of a brownish green loose-fitting fabric and were baggy but bound tight around his waist and ankles.
His brown hair rolled in thick, shoulderlong dreadlocks down his head, covering half of his face, like the bars of a prison.
His eyes lacked pupils entirely, and over his shoulder he wore a massive club, with spikes sticking out of it.
Like all Shapeless, he walked barefoot.
“Hey, Groll, finally here to relieve us?” Gaurek called, eager to leave his post.
Groll nodded. "Something like that. Vestiya wants to ask him a few more questions, so I'll take him over." He tilted his head toward Moran. "You two should head to the gathering; it’ll start in earnest in half an hour."
"Yes!" Gaurek celebrated, pumping his fist. The woman beside him gave him a raised eyebrow, both annoyed and amused by his enthusiasm.
Groll crossed his arms, smirking. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson this time,” he said, directing the comment at Gaurek.
Gaurek scoffed, opening his mouth to retort. “And here I thought the chief would let us rot—” but his partner cut him off, grabbing him by the shoulders and shoving him aside before he could finish.
“I’ll make sure he does,” she muttered to Groll, giving Gaurek a mock-serious glare as they walked away.
“Unbelievable, those two,” Groll muttered with a shake of his head.
He turned his gaze back to Moran, who stared uncertainly, unsure of what was expected of him.
With a slow yet firm wave of his hand, Groll beckoned him to stand up.
"Come, the chief wants to speak to you," he said, his voice equal parts kind, commanding, and impatient.
Moran nodded and rose to his feet, his knees creaking as he shifted out of the position he’d been frozen in for hours.
A wave of tickles ran down both legs as the blood filled vessels it had not been in for a while, and his first steps felt like he was walking on needles.
As they started walking, Moran’s curiosity got the better of him.
“"How’s Kai?" he asked, fully expecting Groll to ignore him. But starved for conversation, he tried anyway.
To his pleasant surprise, Groll answered.
"The boy’s alive. Our healer managed to patch him up. In fact, it’s his Beheartening we’re celebrating today."
That was good news. It would have been a shame if all that effort and hauling had been in vain.
“That’s…good to hear,” he replied, half in earnest and half for show.
Groll gave him a long look, like he wanted to discern whether or not Moran was serious.
Moran's cube, or guide, as the Chief had named it, that had rested the last few days on the table sprung to life and raced to Moran's feet, where it kept his pace.
It was currently deactivated and thus barely visible.
They strode slowly through the village, giving Moran plenty of time to absorb every detail of his surroundings.
It was his third time walking this way, but the first two could hardly see his own feet, let alone a village in near complete darkness.
The village sprawled beneath a canopy of towering trees, their massive trunks rising over fifteen meters high, dwarfing everything below.
The buildings here were simple but sturdy, crafted from thick slabs of stone or roughly-hewn wood, blending seamlessly with the landscape.
In place of doors, most structures had draped, colorful fabrics that swayed gently with every breeze.
Even with the lack of sun and the thick forest around the village, there was always a soft wind blowing, caressing the deep reds, lush greens, and warm golden clothes that hung all over the village, transforming the otherwise simple village into an artwork of colors.
The fabric was everywhere—draped across walls, covering windows, and even threaded through branches—so much so that some houses seemed more clothed than the people who lived in them, wrapped in cascading strips that flowed down the facades.
In sharp contrast to the masterful work of the village’s weavers, the roads were informal at best.
Moran doubted they were the product of any craftsmanship at all; they looked more like trails that had simply been worn down by countless footsteps over time.
These paths twisted and turned, branching around buildings and dipping beneath low-hanging branches, the dirt packed hard from constant use.
Moss crept along the edges, softening the borders of the paths, and here and there, stones poked out like nature was just waiting to reclaim what was hers.
Along the trails stood countrless jars filled with the dancing lights Moran knew since he had woken in this realm.
They were the only source of light that illuminated the entire village.
They hung from branches, posts, and buildings, casting a warm, flickering glow over everything in sight.
Their light played with the colorful fabrics littered all over the fillage, transforming them in dancing schemes
Looming above all of this were the massive trees, their trunks towering overhead and their branches stretching out in thick, sturdy webs.
Some branches supported full treehouses, their walls pressed tight against the trunks, while others carried parts of the village’s homes, with wooden beams and stone walls secured directly into the trees themselves.
The branches were wide enough to serve as natural walkways, weaving between buildings and connecting homes at various heights, creating a layered village that rose up into the trees as much as it spread across the ground.
Moran could hardly believe that such a seemingly simple civilization had created a village so intricate and artfully designed.
Several times, he found himself stopping, breath catching as he gawked at some detail, but each time, Grall’s massive hand pressed firmly, though not unkindly, on his shoulder, urging him forward.
After a few minutes of crossing these beautiful but lifeless streets, they finally arrived at the half-tent Moran had come to recognize. Grall gave him a gentle shove inside before stepping in after him.
Inside, Vestiya was not seated on the massive, throne-like chair as she had been the first time they met. Instead, she sat on a low stool, her back turned to them.
Groll cleared his throat and spoke in a gravelly voice. “I brought him, as you asked.”
The Chief tilted her head just enough to reveal her left profile and nodded. “Thank you, Grall. That will be all for today. Leave us.”
Groll hesitated, concern etched on his face. “But, Vestiya—”
Without so much as a pause, she replied sternly, “Greet your wife for me.”
The finality in her voice left no room for argument.
Groll shot an unreadable glance at Moran, then squeezed his massive frame through the doorway, leaving the two of them alone.
Moran took a deep breath, steadying himself.
For better or worse, he was now alone with the Chief.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked, trying to sound calm despite his hammering heart.
He couldn’t shake the unease.
The monkey may have joked about the Shapeless eating their adversaries, but he was still uncertain whether it had really been a joke.
His throat was dry as sand, and his voice sounded the part.
Vestiya gave a slight nod, turning just enough that her face was partially visible.
Stolen novel; please report.
The woman was wrapped in a massive, fur-like blanket—so thick it seemed it could stop arrows.
Draped loosely over her, it transformed her into a kind of rigid, brown pyramid.
The blanket’s weight kept it from clinging to her shape, instead jutting outward like a thick rug, with sharp, unbending corners that created a heavy, angular shroud around her.
She sat there fully enveloped in the blanket’s bulk, like she did not want anyone to see what laid beneath.
Her flowing, pink-tinged hair spilled out, framing her face in a soft cascade, as if trying to lend her an air of beauty she had a week ago despite everything else.
“Yes, I did,” she said, finally turning her head fully to meet his gaze. Her eyes, yellowish white, were just as he remembered.
For a moment, her brows furrowed as she gathered her thoughts.
“Though,” she continued, her voice steady, “seeing wouldn’t be the word I’d use. I wanted to talk to you.”
Moran’s heart continued its relentless beat in his chest.
“So, did the elders come to a decision?” Moran asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.
Vestiya shook her head, a faint shiver running through her as she did.
“No. But I did,” she replied, her voice laced with enough authority to leave no doubt whose decision truly mattered.
Moran resisted the urge to shoot back with a sarcastic “took you long enough.”
He held his tongue, reminding himself that antagonizing the woman who apparently commanded this village—or maybe even the entire tribe— he had heard contradicting information about that topic over the last week—might've a negative effect on his survival chances.
“You are…” she began slowly, as though having to concentrate on each word, “…weak. Very weak, in fact. I’d wager even some of our children would pose more of a threat to us than you.”
She continued, dissecting his shortcomings with a few sharp remarks, her tone as cold as her pale face.
Each statement chipped away at his pride, and though he knew she wasn’t wrong, it stung deeply.
He grated his teeth, forcing himself to endure her words. Her eyes, hollow yet piercing, watched his reaction with unsettling intensity.
After a string of what felt like a dozen different ways to phrase "you are useless and pathetic," he finally interrupted, voice strained.
“Is there a point to this?” He asked, more annoyed than angry.
It would've been enough if she’d summoned him here just to insult him, but the impatience to finally learn how his life would continue... if it would continue... quickly made her rambling unbearable.
At his question, a thin-lipped smile crept across her face.
Her mouth trembled slightly, as though from a chill, or perhaps weakness, but she quickly masked it.
“That’s exactly the point. When you first arrived, I was convinced you were concealing some hidden power. Most outsiders come here with something, some ability or strength from their homeland.”
She raised her hand, pointing it at him, and for a brief moment, the edge of her blanket slipped, almost revealing something beneath before she wrapped herself tightly again.
“But you… you’ve let us shove you around, endured the cramped space we kept you in for eight days, and—most impressive of all—you survived an entire conversation with Bithlehem without cussing at the man.”
She spat the last words like she wasn't really sure herself whether they were fitting.
Moran couldn’t help but ask, “Is he really one of the elders? Because honestly, it’s hard to believe.”
Vestiya chuckled faintly, a brittle sound that seemed to take more energy than it should have.
“He may seem like a mad old drunk who’s lost his wits to his flask, but no Shapeless has witnessed more blood, death, and despair than him.”
She withdrew her arm beneath her blanket, the thick fur wrapping tightly around her shoulders once more.
“And yet, he was very outspoken in your defense. While most of us see you as a risk too great to ignore, he nearly convinced the elders to give you a chance.”
She paused briefly, her gaze shifting as if in thought.
“In fact, he certainly convinced me.”
“Convinced you of what?”
“That you’re harmless,” she said, a faint, weary sigh in her voice.
“Whatever power you have, it’s not physical or transcendent. Nothing that could threaten us.”
Moran scoffed.
Had that been it?
Was the last week of being crammed in a space that was barely big enough to stretch out his arms nothing but a test to see if he would
lash out at some point.
Anger quickly gathered inside him, stirring up a storm, but he calmed himself with a few deep breaths.
“You know, you could have just asked,” he said, with more venom in his voice that might be good for him but certainly less than he would've liked.
The chief sighed heavily.
“Anyone who relies on asking risks being lied to. Actions are the only truth,” she then replied, her white eyes staring at him as if they could truly see.
Moran swallowed, licking his lips, which were dry and cracked from his long days in confinement.
“So what now? Am I… welcome in the village?”
Vestiya shook her head, a small tremor running through her, though she kept her voice firm. “No.”
A stich shot through Morans heart. He clenched his fists.
“No?” he repeated, spitting the words more than he spoke them. “I’m not going back to that hut."
His hand shot up, pointing behind him.
"Not even if you send Groll to drag me there.”
Vestiya closed her eyes for a moment, breathing out in a long, controlled sigh, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly beneath her heavy blanket.
“Enough. Just… be quiet,” she replied, her tone weary but resolute. “I need you to listen.”
"Oh no, I will not..." he started but was interrupted by an almost earthshattering.
"QUIET!"
The word reverberated through the room like a crack of thunder, so powerful that Moran staggered, feeling the force of it deep in his chest.
Whatever she had just done, it wasn’t normal; he could feel it in his bones.
Was that what they called the power of a Heartshape?
Mierie had mentioned that Gaurek could blend into any environment, and Kai had said that they take the abilities from their hearts.
Maybe what he was just experiencing was an ability of her heart.
Whatever it was, it completely smothered his anger, melting it away like ice in a blaze.
For a moment her presence was almost overwhelming, threatening to suffocate Moran if he dared utter another word.
But then the woman gasphed, and the spell shattered as her whole body shook.
“Go to the stove,” Vestiya commanded, her voice layered now, not with authority but with a thick rasp. “Open it.”
She nodded to a wall to Morans left. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before it follwed her heads motion to find a small wooden stove leaned against the wall that he had never noticed before.
He shot her another glance and, receiving a nod, stepped forward and pulled it open.
Inside, on a faded cloth, lay a knife.
It looked as though it had been carved from a long, curved fang.
The handle was wrapped in unevenly distributed, aged leather that appeared repurposed.
The craftsmanship looked cheep, almost as makeshift as the village's roads.
Over all, there was nothing special or particularly striking about that knife.
It looked old and used, with already a few chips being visible on the edge of its blade, but that was it.
With a furrowed brow, he turned back to Vestiya, holding the knife up slightly, uncertain of what to make of it.
Vestiya’s gaze softened as she looked at the blade.
“That knife,” she said quietly, “was my mother’s. It was… the very weapon she used to end her own life. It would be an honor to meet my end through it's edge.”
Moran’s eyes widened. He was entirely at a loss here.
Had the disease the woman was suffering from robbed her of her common sense.
“Wait—what are you talking about? Why would you need… this?”
Her lips tightened, and she took a slow, steady breath.
“I am sick. Very, very sick. Not even Aurora ... our healer ... can cure this illness. It gnaws at me and weakens me day by day. Her Heartshape, which could heal any wound or ailment, only worsens and speeds up the damage. Aurora doesn’t understand it. I don't understand it. None of us do... All I know is that whatever this sickness is, it is taking me. Quickly.”
Moran’s brow furrowed. The pieces began to fall into place, though they painted a bleak picture.
Letting the Chief ramble on, he pondered his options.
“It’s why I struggle to breathe, why I grow weaker with each passing day. I can feel it inside me, draining my strength. And I know what it means for the village.” She squared her shoulders, eyes narrowing with the grim determination of someone who considered herself already dead.
“Our people need a strong leader,” she continued.
“Someone who can protect them, who can face whatever dangers come our way.”
Her expression grew stony. “And now, one of my scouts tells me there’s a new threat on the horizon. One we must be prepared for.”
"You want me to kill you?" Moran realised, earning himself a nod.
"Yes," she said.
"Why?"
“Because no one else would do it,” she said flatly.
“The village needs a leader who isn’t half-dead already. A chief must be strong, capable, and without weakness.”
Her voice faltered for a moment, and she took a moment to find them again. “I am… not that chief anymore.”
She glanced away, her gaze falling to the floor.
“Our ways demand that a new leader is chosen only after the old one has died.
It's a tradition that saved us a lot of trouble and infighting in the past, but now it cripples us.”
She gave a humorless smile. “My people are not willing to cut out the weakness that paralyzes them. They rather have me rot in front of them then doing what is necessary."
Moran shifted uneasily. He did not like one bit where this was going.
"So this is my offer," Vestiya continued, her arm creeping out between the blanked again to point at the dagger.
"You free my people from this burden, and in exchange, you can escape. Right now the whole village is attending a ceremony. It will take a few hours before anyone notices, giving you a sufficient head start. Consider it a thank for bringing my son back to us. "
She gave him a smile with shaking lips. Not much was left from the dominating presence she had been the last time the two had met, before she had shoved him into a four square meter big hole for an entire week.
Moran nodded slowly as he was processing what the woman was offering coming to a very obvious conclusion.
This woman was dogshit insane.
Was she really offering this to him, or was this another test? Actions are the only truth, she had said.
Could this be nothing but another test to see how he would react?
Considering her condition, the shaking, and her almost manaical manner of speaking, that was less than likely.
He knew the disease she was suffering from.
It had been his fourth day inside the hut when Moran's mind had spat out the answer.
After a long silence, Vestiya raised an eyebrow, watching him with faint impatience.
“Well? Your answer?”
Moran took his time, each word deliberately slow, enjoying making her wait for once.
“You are an… absolute idiot.”
Her mouth opened in shock, but before she could respond, her face contorted with pain, and she fell silent, giving him the chance to continue.
“You said yourself I’m pathetically weak. And yet you want me to take on some half-baked deal that would leave me stranded in the forest with no supplies, no plan, and your whole tribe hunting me down? Who in their right mind thinks that’s a good idea?”
The words rambled out of him, growing meaner and meaner as the anger of a whole week began to seep in.
At this point, he did not care anymore.
As far as he knew, being accepted into the village was the only shot he had for surviving longer than another week in this world.
If he agreed to her deal, he was dead.
If he ran away, he was dead, and form the sounds of it if he just waited for the elders to reach a decision, granted that she would still give him this opportunity after introducing him to this little scheme of hers, he was dead.
"I told you..." Vestiya began, her voice attempting to sound reasonable, but her illness cut her short, her words dissolving into a faint gasp.
Someone isn't getting enough air, Moran thought to himself.
“That’s why you wanted Groll gone, isn’t it?” He continued, barely pausing.
“You knew just how insane this whole plan sounds, and he would've pointed that out."
Moran filled the room with a dry laugh before continuing.
"You’re so terrified of looking pathetic in front of your own people that you go behind their back in some kind of ego trip. I bet not a single one of your advisors knows about this. Or your son?"
The gears in his mind were turning while he spoke.
"Kai is your son, right? How do you think he would feel finding his own goddamn mother dead just after he finally got what he wanted?"
Moran spat the words more than he said them now.
This whole situation stirred something inside him that he couldn't explain.
He didn't know why, but that last sentence was personal.
As he realised it, he hesitated for a moment, shook his head, and continued.
"You’re so set on holding up your little facade of strength that you’ll drag in some random stranger rather than accept that your own clan still wants 's you as a chief.”
Vestiya's mouth tightened. As she spoke, her voice was a sharp, low, and dangerous growl, a return to form.
“Watch yourself."
Two words, but they almost shook Moran to his core.
Fear attempted to grasp his heart, but his anger did not let it.
"Oh, I watched you plenty. I missed the most obvious sign because you folk have all different kinds of skin, but after seeing you reduced to this."
He made a gesture with his hand that enveloped her entire being.
"I am sure of it."
"What are you talking about?" She spat. Her anger seemed to quell her symptoms a little, which only confirmed Moran's suspicion.
"Your brittle nails, yellowish eyes, and skin; your stumbling way of speaking; the way you gasping for air make it quite obvious. Let me guess you have constant headaches, chest pain, restless legs... anything of the sort?"
Vestiyas eyes widened. "How do you know?"
Moran tilted his head. This was kind of fun, he realised.
He knew something the other party didn't, and now he used it to get one up on an otherwise stronger opponent.
"So what is it? Headaches?"
"All of it," Vestiya admitted, almost stumbling over her words in an attempt to speak them quickly.
He nodded. "When did that start?"
The woman collected her throughts for a moment before answering.
“It… it started after my son left on his hunting trip about a week ago,” she began, her voice slow, every word seeming to take a toll.
“At first, it was just a faint itch in my arm, a discomfort I thought was in my head.”
She paused, her gaze dropping, as though the effort of speaking required her to steady herself. “But when it didn’t go away, I visited Aurora, our healer. She… suggested a bloodletting.”
She looked at him. "She draws out blood and then uses her power to make our bodies produce more to compensate. It helps with all kinds of posionings."
Moran’s expression remained neutral, though inside he wanted to groan.
I know what bloodletting is, he thought, suppressing a grimace. And it’s about the worst thing you could have done.
Though he had to admit that the healer's way of treating poisions was interesting.
It reminded him of a practice back at his home.
"Let me guess, you guys use it when someone drinks too much."
Vestiya nodded in suprise. "Sometimes, yes. It does help, but... this time it seemed to make it worse. After the bloodletting, things went downhill..."
“Downhill?” Moran prompted, urging her to continue.
She nodded slowly, her eyes clouded with frustration but also a faint glimmer of hope.
“Since then, it’s felt as though... as though I can’t keep up with my own body. Every day, I feel weaker, more exhausted. My chest aches constantly, especially if I move too quickly. My legs...move all the time, like they’re trying to shake free of my body.”
She blinked hard, a hand appearing from under her blanked to rub them.
“And my head...hurts. Like someone is hammering...my head against a wall in an attempt to crack it open.
I can barely think.
I can barely breathe.
And my eyes… they just...itch all the time."
Moran nodded his head. "One last question," he began, sensing her impatience. "What's your diet?"
She looked at him with confusion in her eyes but she seemed to tired to protest at this point.
"I don't need to eat. My Heartshape allows me stay alive without sustiance."
Moran snapped his fingers.
"And that is the problem," he proclaimed solemnly, like he was some kind of saviour. He was really feeling himself at this point.
"But don't worry, I know how to heal you."
Vestiya’s eyes narrowed as she appraised Moran, doubt thickening her gaze together with a glimmer of hope.
“You would say....anything to save yourself,” she muttered, but her tone was laced with a finality that made it clear she expected Moran to speak now, perhaps hoping he had an agurment that would convince her.
Instead, he simply shrugged, sticking his hands into his pockets to instantly pull them out again.
After a week of nonstop wearing them, fabric dends were unconftrably moist. If he didn't get a chance to bathe soon, he wouldn't have to wait until the elders decided what to do to him because he would die of an infection way before Vestiya would of her ailment.
He sighed.
"Look, you can think what you want. But the fact is, if we go with your ‘plan,’” he said, putting the word in quotation marks with his fingers, “we’d both end up dead. And I’d rather avoid getting eaten by god-knows-what’s out there in the forest or torn to shreds by one of you.”
He paused, then added, “So how about a deal instead? You give me one week to heal you. If by the end of that week you don’t feel better, I’ll stab this—” he raised the knife he was still holding, “—right through your chest. Then mine.”
She pondered a second before speaking.
“What do you want in return?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.
“Simple. You’ve already said you’re convinced I’m not dangerous, so convince the elders to let me stay here, or overrule them, or whatever it is you can do.”
He gave her a vulnerable look. “I really just want to stay alive, and I don’t think I’ll make it outside of this village.”
She scoffed, shifting uncomfortably under the blanket, as though every word he spoke annoyed her.
After a moment of gritting her teeth and another theatralic gasph she sighed and shook her head.
"Alright," she spat. "Alright, you win."
Moran’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly, and he took a long, steady breath, feeling tension leave his body.
Relief swept over him, tingling at the edges of his muscles, as though he'd been holding back an entire tide of worry and was only now letting it flow out.
It was only now that he realised how tightly his fist was wrapped around the handle of the dagger.
Seeing his reaction, Vestiya raised an eyebrow, reconsidering her decision.
“Go on, then. Enlighten me, little healer,” she sneered, though her voice faltered and morphed into another gasp. “What miraculous insight do you have that our healer… that our healer somehow missed?”
Moran’s face remained steady. “Iron,” he answered in a deadpan voice.
For a moment, Vestiya simply stared, blinking very slowly, as though on the verge of sleep. Then a weak chuckle escaped her throat, brittle and dry.
“Iron? You’re telling me I need iron?” she mocked. “I’m no sword or spear, and certainly no shield in need of repair.”
She adjusted her posture, turning her entire body towards him. The motion made the blanked slide down her left shoulder to reveal part of her neck.
"I swear to my mother's grave, if this is just a .... a....an attempt at extending your stay in this realm... I swear I'll make your departure so painful you... you'd wish the Gazerbeast had gotten you instead."
The constant gasphing between her words robbed the threat much of it's effect.
A trace of a smirk edged onto his lips. He raised a finger as he began to lecture.
“It might sound ridiculous to you,” he replied, “but trust me, what I’m suggesting is far from idiotic. Our bodies need just a tiny amount of iron to function."
He raised his free hand in front of his face and brought his index finger and thumb within inches of each other.
"I’m not talking about huge chunks of metal here,” he clarified, hoping to puncture her skepticism that was already showing on her face before it could root itself again.
“A spoonful would be enough… you guys have spoons here, right?" he asked, remembering he’d never received any kitchenware to eat the odd salad of fleshy leaves and cheese they’d served him.
After an irritated nod from Vestiya, he continued.
"Iron is important for our blood. That’s the reason it smells rusty when it clots.”
He hoped they knew the concepts of rust and clotting blood, but Vestiya didn’t react, so he assumed they did.
"Without it, our blood can’t transport air, so our body slowly suffocates, even if we’re still breathing. That leads to fatigue, headaches, weakness—all the nice things you just described.”
He decided to keep terms like “oxygen” and “carbon dioxide” out of his explanation to avoid further confusing her
.
Vestiya’s fingers twisted the edge of her blanket as she listened, her gaze turning inward. She seemed to be weighing his words, her hope pitted against doubt.
"Normally, we’d get iron through food, but since you don’t need to eat, I assume your iron reserve was already low. Then, when your healer—Aurora, was it?”
After a weak nod from Vestiya, he continued.
"After Aurora performed the bloodletting on you, it worsened. I assume her power relies on your body’s natural resources, and because yours had none, the blood you produced was useless.”
He was about to elaborate further, but she cut him off with a firm, irritated tone.
“Enough.” Her voice was steady, though more impatient than angry. “Suppose you’re right. How do you intend to fix this?”
Moran shot her a cocky grin. “Oh, that’s the easy part."