Dasha stood frozen, speechless. Veythor's whistle drilled into her ears, each note stretching the silence until it became unbearable, pressing against her chest like an unseen hand that would not let go.

The sound scraped against the inside of her skull, sharp as flint, cold as the air of the forest that pressed close around them. Her heartbeat rattled in her throat, her mind clawing for reason in the void.

What in the world just happened?

Her thoughts trembled, spinning. Darius... her Big Brother Darius—had folded before that boy. Folded before a chained child. The thought was a knife pressed to her ribs. A man who had once stood shoulder to shoulder with fire and steel against the Narzanian army, whose arms had been as shields to their people, now crushed under the weight of mere words, a glance, a silence from this child.

How was it even possible? Her reason tried to make sense, but it fractured under the weight of the impossible.

Slowly, her gaze shifted to Veythor. He hung upside down, still whistling, still drifting in that impossible calm. The firelight caught the edges of his face, painted crimson shadows into the hollows of his eyes, turning them into wells of something hungry, ancient, and indifferent.

Each note of the whistle seemed to curl around her, wrapping tight, squeezing, threatening to pull her into it. And then, abruptly, the sound stopped. The silence hit like a punch. His smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Your face seems hollow."

He laughed. Not a laugh that reached the mouth, not the sound of warmth or amusement, but a low, jagged thing, scraping the night.

Dasha's lips parted, her jaw slack. Irritation dissolved into something stranger a fragile awe, a tremor of fear that threaded through her chest and refused to leave.

"How… how did you do that?" she whispered, voice trembling in the wake of her confusion.

Veythor tilted his head, feigning ignorance, though his eyes glinted like steel under firelight.

"What exactly are you talking about?"

Though in his chest, he already knew. He always knew. Dasha's eyes narrowed, sharp as knives. Her throat tightened, muscles coiled like drawn wire. A sudden, jagged motion, and she lunged forward, fists driven by a desperate, chaotic force. Veythor's half-lidded eyes did not move. He did not flinch.

Thud.

Her fist met his chest. The sound hollow, final.

"Ughhh…"

A faint cry slipped from his mouth, barely more than a breath. And yet, he smirked, mockery curling the edges of his lips. "Are you satisfied now?"

Her lungs drew unevenly, shallow gasps that tasted of fire and iron. She stared into those crimson depths that held nothing, and words fled her. Then, in one shattering release, they erupted.

"I'm talking about why Big Brother Darius folded before you, why he lost his composure! I don't understand anything!"

Veythor's gaze met hers, black against red, unblinking.

There's no path to walk anymore, he thought. But I must move. If no road exists, I will carve one. This girl... this fragile, beating pawn she will be my key. A lever against the world.

A laugh, cold and steel-clad, stirred in his chest. He did not let it escape.

Isn't that just the nature of humans? he mused. No... it is the principle of all creatures who breathe and hunger. To use others, to wring out advantage, and then discard them like torn rags. We trample each other endlessly. One gains... another falls. And in the end… what remains? Only emptiness. That is the marrow of greed. Even if a man seized the world, he would cry for more, open his palm, and demand another.

Dasha's question lingered in the air. Her fists clenched again, nails biting into palms. A white-hot urge to strike his face pulsed through her blood.

"Hey! I just asked you a question—why aren't you saying anything?" she demanded.

Veythor's smile was cold, barren, like frost over stone. "Why not just ask your big brother Darius why?"

Her voice flared, crackling like tinder. "Do you think I'd be asking a jerk like you if I could ask him? He's one of the most... if not the bravest men in this tribe right now! Why would a kid like you shake him? I've never seen him like that. He fought against the mighty Narzanian army many times. Then why… why did he fold before you?"

Veythor tilted his head slightly, the smirk untouched. "You know, even the bravest men harbor the deepest insecurities and fears. Those same men, who stand fearless before enemies, become the most cowardly… if you strike the right place."

Dasha blinked, empty, as if his words had slipped past her understanding or perhaps lodged too deep, to fester.

"I don't understand you… I don't understand any of you."

Her voice broke softly, and she sank to the ground beside him. A sigh spilled into the night, curling into the smoke and sparks of the bonfire. Veythor's gaze drifted to the firelight. Beyond, the forest pressed in. Long, hungry howls rolled across the trees. Shimi and Raika lay unmoving, breaths shallow.

The night stretched on, vast, cold, endless. Time pressed against him like a tide. This was the only night left escape, or die.

Tch… how many times must I play this cat-and-mouse game? First Bulz. Now this tribe…

His eyes slid back to Dasha. Quiet, beautiful pawn… perhaps.

"Dasha, can I ask you something?" His voice was low, threaded with the smoke of the fire, carrying weight unspoken.

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the acrid haze. "What? Ask." Her tone cracked, brittle as ice.

"What's the name of this tribe?"

Her eyes shrank, struck like embers. "We don't tell strangers our tribe's name. It's a disrespect to the tribe."

She sighed, shoulders falling, small and weary. "But… I don't believe in these shitty traditions. Our tribe's name is Nagarono."

"Nagarono…" Veythor repeated, letting the word curl on his tongue. His gaze drifted to the enormous statue looming behind the bonfire, shadow stretched wide across the dirt, monstrous in the firelight.

"Dasha, I have another question."

Her eyes flared with irritation. "What now?" she demanded.

"That statue over there… is it the so-called Dogundra's statue?"

Her head turned sharply. Eyes narrowed. Fire reflected in them like shards of iron. Veythor saw it, felt it... the raw, searing rage, disgust, and ancient contempt.

Would you share its story? he wondered. The reason for such hatred?

He smiled faintly.

"Dogundra is our deity. Not only ours but the deity of all tribes who live in this forest. We do all kinds of things to please it… dance around it, bow to it. People say it still lives somewhere deep inside the forest, beyond reach, somewhere unknown."

Veythor raised his brows. Total nonsense.

"Wanna see him?" Dasha asked suddenly.

"How?" he replied, almost faintly, voice threading the smoke.

She pulled out a small wooden statue, placing it before him. His crimson eyes flickered.

The creature was lionlike head of a beast king, body heavy with coiled muscle, but wrong, distorted. Its face bore five eyes, two great sabertooth fangs curved like sickles, a deep scar carved eternally across its timber features.

This is a deity?

Veythor's lips twitched inwardly. Mythical beast, relic of eras lost. Animal, not god. He almost laughed outright.

"See?"

Dasha's voice was low, cautious. "So… you all worship this thing? This… is your god?"

Her face twitched with hate, tremor of something older than fear beneath her skin.

"God? Worship?" she spat the words, trembling but not broken. "Don't make me laugh. Since I was born into this tribe, I never once worshiped it with my heart. I was forced. There's a legend… the creator of our Nagarono tribe, the first leader, once met Dogundra himself. The fool wanted Dogundra's treasure, hidden somewhere in this forest. But when he met Dogundra… he lost. He begged for his life. And Dogundra… didn't let him off for free."

Her hands clenched, nails biting into the flesh of her palms.

"It demanded sacrifices. Not animals... Not tokens but human children. To save his life, our creator agreed. He made a pact. The condition: three sacrifices every year or Dogundra would destroy our tribe. And so it became our tradition. Every year, children were taken, whether from our tribe or brought from elsewhere. If any parent argued… resisted… they were skinned alive and hung at the tribe's center, a warning for all."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Veythor listened. Every word etched into the steel of his mind. Keys, Knives, strategies. Her grief was data, her fear leverage. He felt nothing. No sorrow nor pity. Her pain slid off him like rain from stone.

Only one thing pulsed, fierce and pure. Escape. Escape. Escape.

For now everything else was dust, meaningless.

He exhaled, slow, curling into the cold night. Chains rattled faintly. His gaze returned to Dasha. Shadowed smile curling at the corner of his lips.

"Dasha," he murmured, low and deliberate, voice threading the firelight. "Let's make a deal."

Her head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing sharply. "A deal? What deal?"

Crimson eyes glimmered like embers, firelight dancing across them. "Escape with me."

The flames crackled. The forest exhaled with them, leaves shivering, howls trembling from the depths. Night itself seemed to hold its breath.

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