Page 55

"Sora, what happens to the captives? The ones in the cages below?"

Sora’s markings dimmed to a sombre plum colour. "They are held for the Elders to decide. Usually, they are seen as a rot to be removed from the grace of Alu'un. Why do you ask?"

"The Vakra in the cage... Sky," I said, catching myself before I used his full, clicking name. "He’s just a kid, Sora. I know what the Vakra have done—I've seen the scars on your people—but he’s terrified. He’s injured. You can't just treat him like a monster when he's barely seen three sun-cycles."

Sora stopped walking and looked at me with a complicated expression. "He is Vakra, Lyra. Their blood is different. Their hearts are... hollow."

"He’s not hollow," I insisted, stepping closer to her. "He spoke to me. He’s curious. He’s just a child who was born into the wrong clan. Please, Sora. Help me make sure he’s treated fairly. Don't let them just... discard him."

Sora sighed, her shoulders dropping. "The moons make us all more compassionate, and more volatile. I will speak to the healers. We can bring him some of the festival's offerings. It is not much, but it is a start."

"Thank you," I breathed.

As we continued through the Nest, the change in the atmosphere was staggering. The usual quiet, industrious hum of the Oru-ka had been replaced by a festive, chaotic energy. Tribal members were everywhere, their red skin glowing in the dappled light as they draped long strands of flowers across the walkways and prepared massive communal pits for the feast.

But the biggest shock was how they looked at me.

Instead of the wary, suspicious glances or the outright avoidance I’d grown used to, I saw nods of acknowledgement. A group of young foragers passed us, one of them reached out and pressed a small, polished stone into my palm—a "luck-finder," Sora whispered. Another woman, weaving a crown of silver leaves, broke off a small piece and tucked it behind my ear with a shy smile.

I wasn't just a guest anymore. In the eyes of the Oru-ka, I was becoming a part of the tapestry of life provided by Alu'un. And as much as I tried to ignore it, I knew the golden-eyed man responsible for bringing me here was at the centre of it all—whether he was hiding from me or not.

Chapter 37

Kaelen-Thul

Iwatched them from the high shadows of a secondary terrace, my body finally still, though the fever’s internal hum remained a low, dangerous vibration in my marrow. Below, Lyra moved through the walkways with Sora, her golden hair a sharp, brilliant beacon against the deep, earthy red of my people.

I saw the foragers offer her a luck-finder—a stone that many hunters spent seasons trying to earn. I saw the weaver tuck a silver leaf behind her ear as if she were a daughter of the Oru-ka. A strange, possessive heat flared in my chest; it wasn't the frantic lust of the night before, but something steadier. Heavier. She was being woven into the life-tapestry of the Tribe, and the sight of it grounded me even as it terrified me. To the Tribe, she was becoming a guest of honour. To me, she was the reason my world had tilted off its axis.

"You are supposed to be overseeing the wood-stacking for the pyres, brother."

I didn't turn. I had scented Toren the moment his feet touched the terrace. Unlike most of our frontline warriors, Toren was lithe, built for the high-canopy sprints and the acrobatic manoeuvres of a long-range scout. He moved with a feline grace that made him almost silent, yet his presence was as sharp as a whetted blade.

"The wood is being stacked. The scouts are positioned. The Nest is prepared for the moons," I said, my voice clipped and official.

Toren moved to my side, leaning his thin, muscular arms against the railing. He studied me with a piercing, analytical gaze, his own markings a calm, steady teal that spoke of a mind untroubled by the lunar fever. "Your Pulse," he remarked, his voice dropping so the workers below wouldn't hear. "It has levelled. Last night, you looked as though you were ready to tear the Home Tree down with your bare teeth just to feel the sap run. Today... you are almost calm. How did the storm break so suddenly?"

My jaw tightened until my teeth ached. I felt the phantom sensation of her mouth, the sweetness of her jasmine scent, and the way she had looked up at me from her knees with that intoxicating mix of defiance and surrender.

"I found a way to vent the pressure," I said, my voice a low growl. "Do not seek details where there are none to be given, Toren."

Toren raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his mouth, but he knew the boundary of my temper. "Regardless, the Elders want an update on the Vakra fledgling. They are restless. They want to know if he is a scout for a larger swarm or merely a stray who fell from the rot."

"Then we go," I said, eager to escape the scrutiny of a friend who knew me too well.

We descended the central spiral, heading back toward the damp, shadowed roots where the air grew heavy with the scent of wet earth and ancient minerals. As we neared the fissure that led to the cages, a massive figure stepped out from the darkness.

Vahn.

The anomaly among our people—huge, even by High Guard standards. His skin was a map of violence; jagged, silvery scars from Vakra claws and forest predators tore across his chest and shoulders, disappearing beneath the heavy furs he wore. He moved with a slow, deliberate gait that felt like a threat in motion. He didn't look like a hunter who had been helping with the festival preparations; he looked like a scavenger who had been feasting in the dark.

I moved before he could slip away, my hand shooting out to grip his upper arm. Even through the thick muscle, I could feel the tension in him. "Vahn. Why are you emerging from the root-cells? Your post is on the eastern perimeter, guarding the approaches."

Vahn didn't flinch. He was one of the few who could look me in the eye without tilting his head. He looked down at my hand, then up at me, his amber eyes glittering with an oily, mocking light. "The perimeter is quiet, Huntmaster. Even the forest seems to hold its breath for the festival. I simply wanted to see the monster that caused our brothers so much grief. Is a little curiosity a crime among the Oru-ka?"

"Where in the Alu’un have you been, Vahn?" Toren stepped forward, his lithe frame a sharp contrast to Vahn’s bulk, but his posture was just as lethal. "You’ve been skulking in the shadows for three turns of the suns. You’re becoming even more of a ghost in your own Nest, and ghosts are usually bad omens."

Vahn let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like stones grinding together. His markings flickered a mocking, pale yellow—the colour of deceit. "Perhaps I just prefer the company of the roots. They don't demand as much as you do, Toren."