Veythor stood still, his hands stained crimson with Dasha's blood. The girl lay motionless on the earth... her body hollow, her soul already gone. A faint trickle still ran from her throat, tracing quiet rivers through the dust. He took a step back, careful, deliberate.

If her blood touches my feet, they'll trace me easily, he thought, his gaze flickering downward.

The night was silent now—eerily so. Not even the forest breathed. Only the distant whisper of wind answered him, cold and indifferent. His eyes drifted toward Raika and Shimi. Their faces were still, lost in sleep, unaware of what the night had claimed.

"They'll play their roles soon enough," he murmured under his breath.

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward the tribe's distant fires, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his lips. That smile wasn't human... it was a promise, sharpened and venomous.

"Time to finish this matter," he whispered, and the wind seemed to carry his words into the dying dark.

Veythor moved through the sleeping camp like a shadow given thought. Around him, the tribe slept in restless heaps, warriors and elders alike, their faces half-lit by the dying glow, unaware of the devil that walked among them.

He removed his boots, his bare feet made no sound. Even the earth seemed unwilling to betray him. He passed by the animal pens, the dried herbs, the stacked bows and spears—all pieces of a life he had already decided to destroy.

Oil… I'll need some oil, he thought, eyes scanning the silhouettes of storage huts that loomed like crouched beasts. The scent of old smoke and resin lingered in the air. Somewhere nearby, something dripped.... a slow, steady sound, like blood finding its way to the floor.

He followed it quietly and quickly. Minutes stretched like taut wire. Then, in the dimness of a half-collapsed hut, he saw a drum, squat and iron-bound, its surface glistening faintly with leaked darkness. The smell hit him instantly: sharp, bitter, heavy... it was Oil.

Veythor brushed his fingers against the metal rim, feeling the slick texture, the promise hidden within it.

Perfect, he thought, a cruel satisfaction twisting at the edge of his lips. The wind outside stirred, whispering against the huts as though the night itself sensed what he intended to do. He looked once more toward the heart of the sleeping tribe, then at the faint, paling horizon beyond the trees. Dawn was coming.

"Just in time," he murmured. I have to move fast—any moment someone might wake, and if that happens, everything falls apart. After I escape this forest I must seize power, learn the rules of this world's strength; survival demands knowledge and ruthlessness.

He walked back to Dasha's lifeless form. The moonlight picked out the small, ordinary things: the bucket she'd fetched earlier, the faint smear of blood that refused to darken the soil. Veythor smiled.... a thin, private thing.

"Look, Dasha," he murmured to the quiet, as if the dead could hear plans, "with your own hands I'll destroy what you loved."

He snatched up the bucket and padded to the hut where they kept the oil. The door protested in a soft creak, the fumes inside smelling like sleep and machine... dull, oily, inevitable. He lifted the lid slowly, the metal groaning, and peered into the black, glossy pool that would turn night into furnace.

He quickly filled the bucket with oil and slipped out of the hut.

All of this tribe's huts are made of straw, and they're built so close together it almost looks like one giant, connected nest. There must be at least sixty of them. Burning all would be impossible… but twenty should be enough. If I light twenty huts, the fire will spread fast. Even if everyone doesn't die, panic will do the rest... and that's when I'll make my escape.

Veythor calculated silently, a wicked smile curling across his face.... the kind of smile that would fit a victorious warlord surveying a conquered field. He walked toward the place where Raika and Shimi still hung, their bodies limp in sleep.

Dasha's corpse lay nearby, pitiful in the pale light. The passionate girl who had once carried fierce love for her tribe had died quietly, like a candle snuffed by a passing breeze. Veythor's eyes lingered for a second, then moved on.

He set down the bucket of oil beside the steel bar and looked at Raika and Shimi. His escape from the chains had pushed them into the background of his story... but now, it was time for them to rise again.

He climbed up the bar slowly, his movements deliberate. First, he untied Shimi's rope; she dropped to the ground with a faint thud, still unconscious but trembling slightly. Then, he loosened Raika's bindings. He fell, landing roughly on Shimi. The jolt of pain stirred her awake, her breath catching sharply.

Veythor descended, landing softly on the dirt, and stood in front of them his expression calm, unreadable, as the cold air carried the faint scent of oil and blood.

Shimi's head throbbed as the world swayed in and out of focus. Her vision blurred... colors bleeding together... until, slowly, everything sharpened again. She felt a heavy weight across her back. Raika. Groaning softly, she pushed him aside and struggled upright, her limbs stiff, her breath uneven.

Veythor stood before her, smirking faintly, his tone almost playful.

"Yo… did you sleep well?"

At that, the haze in her mind shattered. Memory flooded back the capture, Dasha, the chains, the pain and her eyes widened in horror. She jolted to her feet, panic flaring, ready to scream.

"Shhhhhhhh."

Veythor raised a finger to his lips. His calm, quiet command froze her mid-breath. Realization hit her like cold water, and she swallowed hard.

"S-sorry…" she whispered, forcing a small, apologetic smile.

Veythor's face hardened. "There's no time. We have to move, now."

Confusion clouded her eyes as she tilted her head, trying to piece together what he meant. Then her gaze drifted unintentionally—toward the ground beside them.

Her breath caught. Dasha lay there. Eyes wide, glassy, hollow. Her throat split open, a dark river dried halfway through its path. For a heartbeat, Shimi's entire body locked in place. The scream that built in her chest clawed to escape... but before it could break free, Veythor's hand clamped down over her mouth, firm and unyielding.

Her body trembled against his grip. Tears welled in her eyes as the terror turned to numb disbelief. Slowly and painfully she began to calm down.

Veythor exhaled, relieved for only a moment. Then his muscles tensed. Something shifted in the air. His gaze snapped forward.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, illuminated faintly by the paling night, was a little boy from the tribe. He stared at them wide-eyed, uncomprehending caught between innocence and fear, his small chest rising and falling in silence.

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