The sun scorches relentlessly—dry season in full force—and among these ruins, there's nowhere to hide from its blazing gaze while it stands so high. One could perhaps lie flat in the thin shadow cast by the wall. Usually, villagers don't wear anything on their heads, only some hunters venturing deep into the Wastes wrap their faces with cloth against the dust. Caravanners use something similar but longer, covering face and head alike. And in other settlements I've seen special raffia hats. Perhaps I should consider something like that too. Maybe it's habit, but I swear I feel my brain boiling in the heat, about to bubble over and spill out through my ears. Tukto might handle the blaze better, but with my darker hair, it's a true trial. Uncle Di's is even black!
"Hey, Tukto!" I finally called down to the boy below. He started to turn his pale, nearly white head—just like everyone in his family—but spotted me in time.
"You really climbed high," he said, clicking his tongue in admiration.
"Let's get to it," I replied curtly, casting one last glance at the distant village from the ledge. No one in these sizzling ruins. Good.
"As you say, Legrad. Here are the roots," he tossed down a large pouch first, then a smaller one, "and here's the red rawhide. Your turn."
"Alright." I pointed so he wouldn't get confused. "Turn left. See that second floor, the triangle window?"
"I see it," Tukto nodded, glanced at the window, then looked back at me.
"That's where you're going," I pointed again. "Climb."
"I hope you're not pulling some dumb trick," Tukto frowned, trying to pierce me with those sharp blue eyes. They stood out starkly on his sun-darkened, dust-covered face. I probably looked no better—except with gray eyes like Mom's.
"No tricks. Get moving," I muttered, beginning my descent. He'd gotten chatty lately. No morning questions like these before.
This past month—since the flogging—I finally understood what true hunger is. Forget my old whining about going hungry. Only now did I learn what it means to crave food. Constantly—from morning till night, tossing and turning on hides, trying to sleep as that gnawing emptiness churns in your gut. Forget Uncle Di's supplements. Now only rations from village labor. Even after watering double plots in the gardens, I barely got half my old serving of meat-root or, mockingly, pumpkin. Pumpkin! Almost grass. Only good for stuffing your belly to muffle the hunger. Sometimes alright to add to a stew. But relying on a pumpkin gruel for energy? For growth? Where's the sweet grain, or dragonweed seeds?
Same for Mom. Leila—even worse. On Skirto or Shigo's shift, she'd go unfed. They always found reasons to deny rations to the little girl already swaying like a twig.
Yesterday, I saw Mom handing in flatbread early, arguing with Kari and Rakot. Pumpkin again. I thought she might strike Rakot—judging by how he flinched, I wasn't alone. We had to act. I was even ready to chase down lizards or grasshoppers swarming the village. But Father's tales held me back—it takes more strength to catch such scraps than they give when eaten. True meat was the only answer.
I worried Virgl would pull me off stone duty—but it seemed the heavens shielded me. Instead, I got removed from all other tasks: no leatherwork, no storage, no herding, no drying herbs or jeyr dung, no fishing for those dumb fish brave enough to show up in our river. No sweeping, grinding chalk, polishing horns, coating walls, or fixing roofs. Not even foraging trips. Just buckets and stone.
Maybe Virgl wanted to exhaust me with isolation and labor. But I could now water entire plots solo and not tire—provided I'd eaten the night before. And I had my family. My delicate blossom—Leila. So the call "To the stone!" felt like a gift. I interrogated Rat, who dreamed of the Wastes and knew much from past labor. I recalled every tale from Father and Uncle Di. I pestered my worn-out mother with questions—all seeking crumbs of knowledge about hunting and the Wastes.
Seeing Uncle Di was nearly impossible. No flogged hunter stayed alone anymore. They left at dawn as a group—always with Cardo's trusted man. Returned at dusk. No one smuggles meat into the village these days. No chance of getting a mentor.
Next step in my plan: crafting a weapon. That shard I found near the bridge came in handy. Yes, it was stone, unusable for cutting—no sharp edges. But tougher than any village iron blade, with a tip as fine as a needle. This long stone spike would be my first combat weapon.
That's how the deal with Tukto began. I hated Rakot only a little less than Cardo, Paurit, Virgl, Skirto, and Shigo. Porto? Indifferent. Yes, I remembered the filth—but also his refusal to call me "darss" and his choice to opt out of that game. And his brother? Easy enough to deal with. He had his elder's backing and grew bold with adults—but never used Porto's name, bullied the weak, or flaunted status.
I hoped that by sharing purpose, Tukto wouldn't betray me over something petty. Today was the first test—harmless enough for me.
I wanted to slightly feed Mom and Leila, and grab straps for my weapon's handle. I didn't believe Cardo's childhood friend lived in real hunger like the rest. I knew Tukto could talk circles around fool Ma, and smart enough to avoid greedy Gazil—which I told him outright. All that remained: how to pay for his help. Stone wouldn't do, like with Rat.
Fortunately, I'd found other things in untouched upper ruin levels. Atop Black Mountain, massive predatory birds nest. Catching one is a great feat in our village. They even have a proper name—Rauh. Not a desert name like Bonebreaker or Red Spined Wolf. She earned the name because her bones are tougher than any base metal, yet she's not even a Beast with strength, let alone a Monster—and her remains are always put to good use as tools or weapons.
They say the bones are so strong because these birds eat the stones of the Ancients' ruins. Tales say their stomachs are filled with handfuls of small rocks. They're caught only by ambush and bait. No one's ever found a dead Rauh.
Until I did.
No clue what killed her. Age, predator, illness? But she didn't die in the graveyards of her kind. She lay atop a lonely ruin—like a finger pointed at the sky—three hours downstream from the village. She baked there in the sun for years, leaving only a skeleton, with patches of leather still clinging.
She waited for me.
Sometimes when I reflect, I see divine trials and rewards around me. Maybe I read too many sages' tracts—those overpriced scrolls traders once tried to pawn to Mom. Maybe.
But these bones? No one else could've found them. No one strong enough to climb that vertical wall, nimble enough to walk that narrow ridge, slim enough to squeeze through the final crawlspace.
You can't help but wonder at the strange design of it all.
These are the very bones Tukto is now excitedly trying to break, while I hastily chew on a root and check the contents of the smaller pouch. Exactly what I need: pieces of tanned red antelope hide in various sizes. It's hard to explain exactly why I need them. I can lie about replacing moccasin lacing, fixing mat fasteners, or any number of things—hide always comes in handy.
"Hey!" The bird skeleton dropped in front of me—well, that's about how I lowered it, trying to conserve energy. "Great deal! It's way bigger than I expected. Don't regret giving it away for scraps?"
"Not at all. As long as Virgl doesn't find out, I won't regret anything," I repeated what I'd said that morning. Better to learn in this first deal whether he can keep his mouth shut. I might need more serious things down the line. "He'd be thrilled to shove me back into the sand."
"Yeah," Tukto's excitement faded. "If not for my brother, I'd probably be in trouble too."
"And your father," I reminded him, watching him closely. Where was he going with this?
"Yeah. Him too." The boy hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry about what happened to your mother."
"What are you talking about?" I waved away his sympathy. "A lot of people were punished that day."
"I saw that Paurit didn't take anything out of your house."
"What?! And you…" I froze mid-sentence, suddenly realizing the details of what had happened—and what he'd witnessed. Like a flash, instant clarity.
Our home was the last on the edge—logically, the search should've started with us. But Paurit stalled. Half the village had already been searched before he got to us. What was he waiting for? He needed a convenient moment—when something incriminating could be lifted from another home and planted elsewhere. Maybe he hadn't planned anything initially. But Mom wounded his pride when she struck him.
What happened in front of me? Rakot brought herbs to Kari. A huge pile, from which one could easily swipe a single sprig unnoticed. And Tukto saw not just Paurit's empty hands—he saw who gave him that cursed herb.
Can I expect this kid to publicly accuse his father in front of the whole village? It's a miracle he even feels remorse and spoke up. Despite resembling him physically, Tukto and his brother don't take after their father.
I stared into blue eyes like Rakot's. Beat him for what happened to Mom? What's he got to do with it? Sink into revenge and become another Virgl? Never.
"I understand, Tukto. You're a good guy. I'm sorry too," I cut him off mid-sentence, as if we were wandering traders wrapping up a deal. I didn't want to talk anymore. I needed to be alone. "Fair trade!"
"Fair trade," he echoed, his faded blue eyes still fixed on me.
I walked away without looking back. Somehow, I felt like he was still standing there, watching my retreating figure. Must be hard, seeing your own father commit a disgraceful act. I doubt Tukto will ever be considered close to the new chief. And I trust he'll never speak of our deal.
There's nothing to say to Tukto right now. I don't want to shout about unattainable justice or spill empty words. No one will stand up for us. I chose to become stronger and break free from this wasteland. And first—I'll take revenge for the wrongs done to me.
A year from now, Tukto will begin his own Ascension. Maybe I'll give him advice to boost his chances—and repay him for his honesty and the sincerity in those blue eyes, free of his father's cold contempt.
Turns out I've got a decent talent. And the path I chose for Ascension isn't as simple as just three obstacles.
Since seeing my mother's unjust punishment, it's become harder to develop my meridians. Maybe there's too much hatred in me. Strange. I always thought I could let go of resentment easily. Even after Virgl's beatings, I'd boil with rage for a day or two, but then find it hard to rekindle the same intensity. I'd fade like a wick without oil.
But now it's different. Even after the thousandth time hauling buckets and visualizing blue threads weaving into me, pulsing with my heartbeat—I'd suddenly realize those images were gone. Replaced by the whip's hiss and the sting of sand on my cheek.
That's how it was before.
But today, I saw that my hatred… no, it didn't fade. It transformed into something stronger, sharper, clearer. My hate-soaked memories collapsed into a single blade, now aimed at one face. I'd call it bloodlust. And it didn't hinder my Ascension—it fueled it.
"Paurit, you should see the dagger I'm making," I whispered to myself, buzzing with joy and fury. My father was a good smith. Sure, I'm just a kid who didn't get to learn much—but this isn't complicated work.
Dad left behind recipes and tools, though without a mentor, they're mostly useless. Mostly. Even reading taught me about different kinds of daggers, swords, and spears.
I imagined turning that stone spike into a fine four-edged rondel dagger. I'd swiped two perfect hoof trimmings from skinny Kotil's shed near the pen—guess Father's parents were right: I'm my mother's son.
I carefully drilled holes. Eventually, the hole in the future pommel turned out a bit large, but it didn't matter. I fitted the horn plates, wrapped the handle tightly with thin leather, then added thicker pieces to the blunt end to secure the pommel and guard. Half a day in the sun, and the dried hide would clamp the hooves onto the stone spike permanently.
Of course—I eyed my crooked creation with doubt—it didn't look anything like the perfect weapon in my imagination. But it'll take Paurit's life.
Hold on—I stopped myself. All this started with the simple goal of hunting meat. How did things evolve so quickly, over just two days, into a dagger for Paurit?
Weird, unsettling thoughts. As if my thirst for blood gained a life of its own, guiding my choices. So be it, I shook my head with resolve, talking to myself again. One doesn't hinder the other.
If I want to hunt a big lizard or quyrgal, I'll need to observe where hunting teams go—then go somewhere else. Good thing there are no more lone hunters wandering nearby. Only teams. Only distant hunts for large animals.
Jeyrs are still forbidden. Goats are hard to find. So trouble awaits their bigger cousins. They offer not just meat—but valuable horns, hooves—I fondly touched my dagger—and hides.
Hunters now track blue and red antelope, mecherogs, and large bearded beasts. And more. Much more.
Cardo's greed runs deep, and the village's fear is so vast, they've already hunted the nocturnal mimic twice—a pack predator with stinking meat but precious skin, claws, teeth, and heart. Fools chasing death. Predators are the ones most likely to be Beasts—those who walk the Ascension path like humans.
But it doesn't matter. Their choice.
What matters is that if Paurit joins a mimic-hunting team—I'll have the perfect chance to carry out my revenge.
What I overheard by the fire pits where they process hides fills me with hope. Virgl, I hope you keep me locked on stone duty. I weighed my sack of meat-root.
For the next week, I won't even meet half my quota. I'll delight you with my poor performance, make you think your plan is working.
Because you don't realize—I'm the one making plans now.