0.32 - (2/2)

The empty toddy pot rolled over the wood of the dock.

Hiyan stared at Malok, who lay on his back, rolling drunkenly, disgust and terror swirling in his chest. Had Malok always been this cruel? Had Hiyan been blind to it—or just as cruel himself until today? Malok was celebrating the deaths of innocent people. All for a title. Sure, Hiyan always knew Malok was ambitious, but capable of killing for it?

He silently prayed the lifeline had held long enough for the raft to reach the far shore—or that it had snapped sooner, giving them a chance to swim back to Tuscanvalle. He wasn’t ready to voice these thoughts, though. Years of standing by Malok’s schemes had become a habit too deeply rooted to break easily. Even the idea of defiance made his stomach churn.

“Ah…” Malok moaned, swaying lazily on his back. One knee bent, the other leg waved in the air. “I’ll have it all. The power, the people, the girl…”

Hiyan’s brow furrowed. “Which girl?” he snapped, his courage bolstered by Malok’s drunkenness.

Malok mumbled incoherently, then chuckled, his hand slipping under his head and propping it up as he grinned to himself.

“Which girl, Malok?” Hiyan pressed.

Malok’s grin faded as he squinted up at him, his expression briefly serious as if trying to remember the question itself. “Creda. My lovely sister-in-law.” He dropped back onto the floor, pulling his hand from under his head and pressing it to his lips like a child shushing himself. “Ah… my future wife. That’s who she is.”

Hiyan let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his temples. Why did Malok keep saying that? Creda was still betrothed to Turo. “How?” he demanded. "She's Turo's."

“Turo will be dead by morning,” Malok sang, his voice dripping with glee. “And Creda will be free from their betrothal.”

Hiyan frowned. “Even then, why would she marry you? You’re her sister’s husband. Besides, Nox has the first right over—” His voice faltered as realization struck.

Sweat prickled his skin despite the night’s chill. Malok had severed the lifeline of the raft, hadn’t he? Nox would drown before reaching the shore. Without him, Samora would be stranded, vulnerable to predators. She wouldn’t survive. And without Nox, Turo had no chance either.

Turo gone. Samora dead. Nox drowned.

Hiyan’s heart thundered. With Turo dead, Creda’s betrothal would dissolve. With Samora gone, Malok would be free of his marriage. And with Nox gone, Bouma would be cornered, with no choice but to hand over her daughter to the only living nephew—Malok.

How long had he been planning this?

Malok wagged a finger at him, his silly, drunken grin daring Hiyan to call him out. You’ve finally caught up, that grin seemed to say.

The first light of dawn crept across the eastern horizon.

—

“Did you hear that?” Bhola gasped, his eyes darting fearfully around.

“Hear what? There’s nothing to hear,” Khotal muttered, fumbling with the vines as he tried to lash the logs into a raft. His trembling hands betrayed him, the vines slipping through his fingers while the logs clanked together, slowing his progress. He cursed under his breath, willing the gods to hasten Nox’s return.

Nox had promised to be back soon, but Khotal’s faith wavered with every passing second. What if he didn’t return? Sure, Nox had said they didn’t need to wait for him, that once the raft was built, they should take Dias and Turo back to Tuscanvalle. But Khotal couldn’t bring himself to leave Nox behind—not in this cursed place. Ayan was already dead, and Dias had barely survived whatever had attacked them. Nox dismissed it as a crocodile, not a monster, but Khotal’s growing fear didn’t care for such reasoning.

“That!” Bhola shrieked, clawing at Khotal’s back.

Khotal jerked away, shoving Bhola’s hand off him. “Keep your filthy hands off me!” he snapped, glaring. “What’s wrong with you, man? There’s nothing out there. Now stop pestering me.” He turned back to the raft, his focus as unsteady as his fingers.

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Bhola clutched his trembling arms close to his chest, his wide eyes darting around the darkened forest. He began humming nervously, his voice wavering like a broken tune. “I hear it. Why do I hear it and you don’t?”

“Because it’s coming for you, not me,” Khotal growled, trying to mask his own fear.

Bhola whimpered, scooting closer for comfort. “What do you mean by that?”

“Stop talking nonsense! You’re just scaring me—and yourself. If you’re so worried, help me with this!” Khotal thrust a bundle of vines into Bhola’s hands, gesturing at the raft. “Dias is dying, remember?”

Bhola hesitated, then grabbed the vines, though his trembling fingers were of little use. “But I keep hearing it,” he insisted.

“Well, I don’t—” Khotal’s words cut off as a low growl rumbled in the distance, followed by the faint clatter of wood. His head snapped up, his ears straining. “Wait. What’s that?”

Bhola’s face lit with vindication. “You heard it, didn’t you? Then it’s not just me!”

"Shh!” Khotal hissed, waving him silent. More clattering followed. A low growl. The scrape of something heavy being dragged. Khotal’s stomach churned. “It’s coming from the camp,” he muttered, scrambling to his feet.

Bhola grabbed his wrist in a panic. “Don’t go! What if it’s a wolf? Or… or a spirit? It’ll kill us!”

Khotal yanked at his arm, trying to break free. “Are you mad? Dias is bleeding out. He's possibly reeking for miles, and Turo’s just a kid! If it’s a predator, they won’t stand a chance. We have to protect them!”

“But what if it’s not a predator? What if it’s a mourning spirit? What if it eats us alive?” Bhola whined, his grip tightening.

“We won’t know unless we go!” Khotal shot back. “Stay here if you’re too scared, but Chief Marnoell trusted me. I can’t sit here trembling while his son dies.”

Shrugging off Bhola’s grip, Khotal bolted toward the camp.

“N… no! Don’t leave me alone!” Bhola wailed, scanning the dark forest before sprinting after him.

When they reached the campsite, panting and clutching their makeshift spears, their hearts sank.

The thorn fence they’d hastily constructed lay shattered, vines and thorns scattered across the ground. Slowly, they stepped closer, dread pooling in their chests.

Inside the fence, there was nothing. No Dias. No Turo.

A bloody trail cut through the dirt, leading from the broken fence into the forest’s darkest depths.

It didn’t take much imagination to see it: Dias’s dying, bleeding body had been dragged into the night.

—

Turo marched into the woods, the clearing of the lake fading behind him.

The trail was clear—Samora had dragged herself inland, her hands and body carving desperate grooves into the soil. Blood darkened patches of dirt, glistening faintly under the moonlight. Blood from the stab wound he had inflicted. She couldn’t have gone far, he thought. Yet the trail stretched endlessly, cutting deeper into the forest. Leaning on his spear for support, Turo pressed on through the uneven terrain.

Samora’s soul surged through the woods, wild and unrestrained. Wrath burned within her. The relentless force seemed to be seeking release. She darted between trees, phasing through trunks, drunk on the strange new power coursing through her. The freedom was intoxicating. She felt untethered—no pain, no flesh, only fury.

And then, she saw him.

Turo stumbled forward like a dog chasing breadcrumbs, oblivious to what lay ahead. Samora halted, her presence invisible but haunting. Turo froze as if sensing her. His eyes darted wildly, searching the shadows. Though she remained unseen, Samora felt his fear bloom—raw and sweet, spilling into the air like nectar.

She savored it. Zipping around him in erratic patterns, she fed on his terror. Turo thrashed at the empty space, his spear slicing through the shadows. Every frantic slash amused her. Every panicked breath fueled her. She wove through the darkness, silent and relentless, until an idea took shape.

She wanted him to see. To know.

Turo’s pulse thundered. Something was there, watching. He tried to shake off the feeling, but his gut churned with dread.

Then it happened.

At first, it was a flicker—barely there, almost imagined. But then the figure began to take shape, slow and deliberate.

Hovering midair, translucent and glowing faintly in the dark, Samora began to take form. Her hair hung in ghostly waves, her pale face framed by strands that dripped with blood. Her lips were a deep, unnatural purple, her chest bare, her body mutilated. And her abdomen—gaping, torn open, its flesh shredded and raw. Blood clung to the edges of her wounds, and from within, the insides of her womb glistened, exposed to sight.

Turo’s knees buckled. His spear slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. His breath caught in his throat as he stumbled back, legs trembling. The boy prayed desperately to the gods, pleading for mercy, but no words left his lips.

Samora’s eyes locked onto his, empty and unyielding. Turo tried to scream, but fear strangled him, trapping the sound in his throat. His body refused to move.

Then she struck.

Samora reached out—not with her hands, but with the hunger. She felt his fear like a tangible force, called it forth, and it obeyed. His terror spilled out in torrents, pouring from his mouth, eyes, nose, and every trembling pore of his body. She drank it in, its essence rich and intoxicating, dulling the memory of her pain.

Turo’s body shriveled as his life drained away, his skin stretched thin over the bones, his features contorted in frozen horror. Even as his essence drained, a strangled scream clawed its way from his drying throat.

Samora felt the energy coursing through her, clearing the fog of rage that had consumed her. Her awareness returned, sharp and sudden. Runo. The name echoed in her mind, vibrating through her very being. Her child was out there. Runo.

Without hesitation, she vanished into the woods, the name a relentless drumbeat within her.

Runo. Runo. Runo.