Page 56 of The Huntmaster

He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes trailing slowly down to my palms—where the scars of my self-mutilation from the night before were still visible, though Lyra's touch seemed to have accelerated the healing.

"You look tired, Kaelen," Vahn said, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive drawl that made the hair on my neck stand up. "Though, I suppose the high canopy can be... exhausting. Especially when one finds such dedicated ways to settle the blood. I hear the star-woman is very... helpful with her hands."

The air between us turned brittle I felt the Pulse in my veins spike, a warning heat radiating from my markings. Toren’s eyes narrowed, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his bone-knife. He didn't have the context to understand the barb, but he knew an insult when he heard one.

"Watch your tongue, Vahn," I snarled, my grip tightening on his arm until my claws began to indent his skin. "Or I will tear it from your throat and feed it to the rot."

Vahn leaned in, his massive chest nearly brushing mine, his voice a mere whisper meant only for my ears. "I wonder... what would the Elders think? To know their Golden One—the paragon of our ways—seeks his solace at the feet of a star-woman? To know he lets an alien taste his divinity? You're starting a messy tradition, Kaelen-Thul. One that might just leave a stain even the moons can't wash away."

He jerked his arm back with a surge of brute strength, and this time, I let him go. I couldn't strike him—not here, not without proving his words had found their mark. He offered a mock salute to Toren and disappeared into the crowd of the lower walkway without another word, his heavy footsteps echoing like a funeral drum.

"What was that about?" Toren asked, his brow furrowed as he watched Vahn leave. "He’s speaking in riddles, even for a malcontent. He sounds like he’s holding a knife behind his back."

"He is speaking like a man who wants to be humbled," I said, my voice shaking with a cold, focused fury that I struggled to keep under lock and key. "Ignore him. He is a bitter kra-hound barking at a moon he can't reach. We have a prisoner to deal with."

But as I stepped into the darkness of the root-cells, my heart felt like a leaden weight. Vahn had no proof—he couldn't have. But he had seen enough to plant a seed of scandal. And a seed like that could grow into a forest of betrayal before the moons even reached their zenith.

The air in the root-cell was stagnant, thick with the smell of damp fungus and the metallic tang of the prisoner’s blood. I stepped into the pale glow of the bioluminescent moss, my eyes landing on the Vakra fledgling. I had come here with the intent to peel the truth from his tongue, to use the cold, hard logic of a Huntmaster to break whatever secrets he held.

But as I drew closer, my gaze fell on his leg.

The wound was wrapped in a strip of soft, homespun cloth—fabric I recognised instantly. It was the colour of the earth, the same material Sora had given Lyra. Beneath the cloth, the faint, glowing blue of crushed Lumia-moss seeped through.

She had been here. She had touched him. She had used her own garments to bind the filth of a scavenger.

I had planned to use the pressure of his injury to force a confession, and a lot more if he refused to speak. I had been prepared to show him exactly why I should be feared. But looking at her handiwork, the edge of my cruelty felt blunted. The violence I had carried down into the roots felt suddenly cumbersome, like a weapon too heavy to wield in the presence of her mercy.

"The star-metal," I began, my voice firm but lacking the lethal bite I’d intended. "Your kind hunts it with a desperation we have not seen in many cycles. Why? What is your clan planning?"

The prisoner tilted his head, his spindly limbs shifting. He looked at the bandage on his leg, then up at me with those milky, unblinking eyes. "The deep is cold, Great One. The metal... it hums. It brings the heat that the moons deny us. My kin... they do not plan. They survive. They follow the scent of the fallen fire to the Great Shadow."

"Half-truths," Toren muttered from the shadows, stepping forward. He studied the boy, his head tilted in curiosity. "He does not smell of the usual rot, Kaelen. There is a... clarity to him. But he is playing a dangerous game with his words. He speaks of survival, yet he was found near the heart of our territory."

"Who sent you?" I demanded, leaning over the iron-wood bars until I was inches from his face. "Are there others near the eastern ridge? Speak, or I will ensure that leg never walks the forest again."

"Many eyes watch the wood," the boy clicked, his voice like dry leaves. "But not all eyes belong to the same mind. I am but a shadow of a shadow."

"What is your name, fledgling?" I barked, the command echoing off the damp walls. "I will not interrogate a nameless ghost. Tell me who you are."

The boy flinched, his throat working as he looked at the bandage Lyra had tied. "Skraal-vark-thun," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Or... as the star-woman of light would say... Sky."

I slammed my hand against the bars, the wood vibrating under my strength. Sky. A name for a bird, not a crawler. He was already adopting her language, her perspective. It was infuriating how quickly her influence spread. "You test my patience. I do not need your riddles. I need to know why the Vakra are encroaching on our Nest."

The heavy curtain at the entrance shifted, and Sora stepped into the chamber. She carried a small, woven tray piled with fruit and steamed root-bread—offerings meant for the ancestors. Her face was set in a solemn, pointed expression as she walked past me without a word and knelt before the cage.

"Sora," Toren snapped, his markings flashing a warning amber. "This is an interrogation. What are you doing with the sacred offerings?"

"I am feeding a hungry child," she said, her voice quiet but ringing with a steel that matched my own. She looked pointedly at Toren, then up at me. "The young Vakra can do no harm in this cage, brother. He already looks half-dead, and Alu'un does not favour those who starve the broken."

Toren let out a sharp breath, side-eyeing me with a helpless shrug. "I do not hold the power here, Sora. You know who decides the fate of the rot."

I let out a low growl, a huff of air through my teeth as I looked at the tray. "This is Lyra's doing, isn't it?"

Sora offered a small, knowing smile as she slid a piece of fruit through the bars. "She has a good heart, Huntmaster. Try not to break it. Humans only have the one, and it is a fragile thing compared to ours."

I turned away and paced the small space. The mention of her name made my skin itch with a sudden, renewed heat. She was meddling again—inserting her soft, stubborn human morality into the harsh reality of our survival. And yet, I couldn't find the anger to stop it.

"He cannot stay here," I muttered, mostly to myself.