"The hunting rite would be in Vorash forest."

"The vorash forest," Sol repeated softly, testing the weight of the words on his tongue. In tribal language it means devouring, endlessly green which seems quite fitting for the forest he had seen from afar.

"Yeah, nasty place," Taru shuddered, oblivious to the cold calculation in Sol's eyes. "Thick canopy, lots of ravines. Perfect for getting lost or... well, eaten." He looked at Sol with a sympathetic grimace. "Honestly, Sol, maybe it's better you don't go. You know, with your... constitution. Just stick to the soup. Everyone says it's delicious. There's no shame in being a gatherer."

Sol blinked, the mask of the harmless, weary scholar sliding back into place. He looked at Taru… this simple, well-meaning boy who had no idea he had just handed Sol the keys to a murder.

"You're right, Taru," Sol said, his voice level and unassuming. "The forest is a dangerous place. One has to be very careful."

He bent down, gripping the rim of his clay jar. The vessel was full now, holding easily forty pounds of water. A week ago, lifting it would have been a struggle that left him gasping. Today, despite the dull ache in his mended ribs, he hoisted it onto his shoulder in one smooth, controlled motion.

Taru's eyes widened slightly at the ease of the lift, but Sol turned away before his friend could question it.

"Good luck with your training, Taru," Sol called over his shoulder. "Try not to break anything before the big day."

"I won't! See you later, Sol!"

Sol walked away from the riverbank, his wet feet slapping softly against the packed mud of the path. The morning noise of the tribe… children shouting, fires crackling, the rhythmic sound of conversations washed over him, but he felt entirely detached from it.

Accidents happen in the wild.

Sol's lips quirked into a humorless smile, hidden by the shadow of the water jar.

By the time he reached the familiar, worn path leading to Lyra's hut, the plan was no longer a vague idea. It was a certainty. He would enter the Rite. He would pass. And somewhere beneath the dark canopy of the Blackwood, Vurok would meet with a very unfortunate, very fatal accident.

Reaching the hut, he took deep breaths to hide the extreme vengeful emotions, and looked at the environments around him to calm down. By now, the sun had fully breached the horizon, casting long, sharp beams of light through the gaps in the village's wooden palisades. The morning haze was burning off, revealing the bustling activity of the tribe waking up to another day of survival.

When he pushed open the door to the hut, the scene that greeted him was one of organized chaos. The girls were already awake. Arelia was sorting the mountain of bones they had acquired yesterday, Veyra was sharpening a knife with aggressive focus, and Liora was trying to balance a stack of gourd bowls.

"Sol!" Lyra looked up from the fire pit, her face breaking into a relieved smile. " You were gone early.I didn't even hear you leave."

"Just getting a head start on the water," Sol said smoothly, setting the jar down. "We have a big day. The tribe is hungry."

"Hungry is an understatement," Veyra muttered, though she didn't stop working. "I heard people shouting about soup outside before the sun was even up."

He smiled and didn't mention Taru, or the Annual Hunting Rite, or the cold, murderous plan currently crystallizing in the back of his mind. Instead, he clapped his hands together, shifting the energy of the room.

"Alright, ladies," he announced, his voice carrying a lightness he didn't feel. "We have a mountain of ingredients and a village full of hungry people. Let's get ready to make soup."

The response was immediate. Lira cheered, Arelia nodded and even the cranky Veyra cracked a small, determined smile. They moved with practiced efficiency, sorting the tubers, washing the herbs, and preparing the smoked meat.

However, as they began the prep, the limitations of their operation became painfully obvious. They had mountains of ingredients… livers, intestines, cracked femurs… but their hardware was lacking.

"We only have three cauldrons," Sol noted, frowning as he tried to squeeze more bones into the largest pot. "We're going to bottle-neck. We can't feed a hundred people with three pots."

"I can ask the neighbors to borrow theirs," Lyra suggested, wiping her hands on her apron. "Old Marna owes me a favor."

"No," Sol shook his head. "If we borrow, we owe. No need for unnecessary favors."

He turned to Lyra. "Aunt, we need more pots."

Lyra wiped her hands on her apron, looking worried. "Clay pots are expensive, Sol. We have to trade good meat or furs for them."

"Not buy," Sol corrected. "Exchange. We can trade the first batch of soup for empty pots.

"And the fire," Sol continued, pacing the small room. "It's too hot in here. We need to expand. Let's set up a secondary fire pit outside the hut. It'll serve as a show, too. The smell will draw people in."

For the next hour, Sol stepped back from the actual cooking. Instead, he acted as a supervisor, teaching the girls the specific ratios he had devised. He showed Arelia exactly when to add the crushed herbs to maximize the aroma, taught aunt about exact fire control and taught Liora how to stir constantly to prevent the starchy tubers from sticking to the bottom, as for veyra,she was too proud to learn from him, and instead secretly learnt whatever he taught to others.

As he watched them work, he did a mental inventory of their supplies. The tubers were plentiful, the meat was sufficient, but the red, fiery pods… the secret weapon that gave his soup its addictive kick… were running dangerously low.

"The chilis are about to finish," Sol muttered, fingering the last few dried peppers in the pouch.

He looked at the girls. "Today, you three run the prep. Arelia, you know the ratios. Veyra, you handle the trade… don't let anyone shortchange you. Liora, you're the face. Smile, serve, and keep the bowls moving."

"You're not coming?" Liora asked, her face falling.

"I have supply issues to handle," Sol said, his eyes drifting to the small sack in the corner. "The 'Fire-Devil's Droppings' are almost gone. If we run out of spice, we lose the addiction. I need to find more."

He looked up. "Aunt, girls. Where exactly did we find these last time? I recall it was near the southern ridge, but my memory is a bit… fuzzy."

"Not the ridge," Lyra corrected softly, not looking up from her chopping. "It was near the Broken Stone Pass. Where the red moss grows."

"Right," Sol nodded, memorizing the location. "Broken Stone Pass."

He turned to the group. "Where else have you seen these red berries? Think."

Arelia paused, tapping her chin. "I've seen them... near the rocky outcrop to the west. Where the trees get thick."

"And near the gorge," Veyra added. "But that's too far."

"The west outcrop," Sol nodded. "That's doable."

Suddenly, Veyra, who hadn't spoken much but observed the most, looked up. Her eyes were sharp, holding a glint of suspicion that Sol hadn't expected.

"Wait," Veyra's eyes narrowed. She pointed the knife at him. "Where did you get the first batch of chilis? You didn't leave the tribe."

Sol froze. He coughed, covering his mouth with his fist. "Ah, well... I found a patch near the old storage sheds. Growing in the cracks. Lucky find."

Veyra stared at him. The lie was thin, but she didn't have proof. "Suspicious," she muttered, returning to her work. "You find a lot of things lately."

"Ancestors," Sol said, winking.

He helped them load the baskets, but as they prepared to leave for the square, Sol hung back.

"Sol?" Lyra asked, pausing at the door. "Are you sure you shouldn't come?"

"It's okay, I believe in you." Sol assured her. "And besides... I have something else to prepare for."

Lyra's expression softened. "It is good that you found this soup stuff, Sol. With this, we have meat. We have status. You don't need to take risks anymore. You don't need to go to the Annual Hunting Rite. Taru's mother was crying a few days ago, terrified for her son. But you… you are safe here."

The room went silent. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

Sol looked at his aunt. She looked so hopeful, so relieved that her fragile nephew had found a safe way to contribute. then at the girls. They looked at him with hope… hope that their clever, gentle cousin would stay safe, making soup and telling stories.

But soup wouldn't stop a punch. Soup wouldn't stop Vurok from dragging them into the woods.

"I'm going," Sol said.

The words were soft, but they hit the floor like stones.

Lyra dropped her basket. "What?"

"The Hunting Rite," Sol said, his voice steady. "I'm going to participate."

"No!" Lyra cried, rushing to him. "Sol, are you mad? We have food! We have trade! Why would you risk your life in the jungle? You are a merchant now, not a hunter!"

"Because soup isn't enough," Sol said, his voice firm, lacking the usual hesitation of his former self. "The soup makes us valuable, Aunt. But in this tribe, value without strength just makes us a target. If I don't become a Hunter… a real Hunter… Vurok will never stop. Others will come to take what we have."

"A merchant without a spear is just a fat pig waiting to be slaughtered," Sol said coldly. "The Rite is the only way to become a Hunter. It's the only way to be untouchable."

"But you... you aren't ready," she pleaded, tears forming in her eyes. "You just healed."

"I am ready," Sol said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I am stronger than you think. I will go. And I will pass. Trust me."

Lyra looked into his eyes. She saw the steel there. She realized, with a sinking heart, that the boy she had protected was gone.

"Two days," she whispered. "You have two days."

"I understand, I'll prepare carefully, don't worry," Sol said.

He watched them leave, their silhouettes disappearing toward the square. Once they were gone, Sol's expression shifted. The warm, family man vanished. The predator emerged.

He grabbed his empty sack and a small clay vial he had prepared.

"Time to go shopping," he whispered.

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