The sun climbed above the jagged peaks, its light spilling over the village of Oja-Ibo.
But the dawn itself was not the most remarkable thing to arrive. That honor belonged to Zombiel.
He was no longer a silent puppet bound to another's command, but something entirely new. Now a child with a soul of fire and a hunger he barely understood.
That hunger, as it turned out, was fixated on one thing: roasted grasshoppers.
Low watched him stalk a grasshopper in the grass with an expression that balanced weariness and reluctant amusement.
"For a guy who couldn't twitch without orders yesterday, he's got a lot of nerve," she muttered. "It's like watching a toddler made of fire and poor judgment."
Jacqueline smiled softly, still awed by the miracle of his transformation.
"I think it's sweet."
"Sweet, sure," Leonotis said, clapping his hands together. "But let's not forget food. Real food. We'll stock up and head out. The capital is waiting!"
They entered the market square, already thrumming with life. Smoke from grilled fish curled in the air, mingling with the sweetness of ripe fruit and roasted plantains.
But Zombiel stopped short, his faintly glowing eyes drawn toward a fishing stall. Beside the catch, a wooden bucket overflowed with wriggling, chirping insects.
"Crunchy," he murmured. His voice carried a low, ember-like hum that made nearby heads turn.
Leonotis's stomach growled as he eyed smoked tilapia, but he noticed Zombiel drifting toward the bucket.
"Zombiel, wait. We'll get you something—"
Too late. The boy stretched out his pale hand, movements jerky but urgent. The stall woman stiffened, her knuckles white on the rim of the bucket.
"Njiru's boy," someone whispered behind them.
"The dead child walks in the daylight."
"Look at his eyes. Fire in the sockets."
The fear spread faster than the gossip. A fisherman dropped his basket; silver fish slapped against the dirt as he stumbled back, clutching his chest.
Leonotis flushed, stammering.
"He's with us! He's… different now. Alive. He means no harm!"
"Yes, he's very different from before," said Jacqueline.
But the villagers shrank away—not curious, only fearful.
Zombiel was oblivious to it all. He snatched a handful of crickets, and before Leonotis could stop him, he pinched one between his fingers. A sputter of orange flame flared at his fingertip, too hot and too wild.
The cricket charred to ash with a sharp pop. Startled, Zombiel jerked and nearly set the bucket itself alight before blowing on his hand like a boy who'd burned himself on a stove.
The old woman's voice shook.
"Not specimens, child. Bait for fish."
"They are also… crunchy," Zombiel said simply, and with surprising speed, he scooped the coins from Leonotis's open palm and dropped them onto her table. It was almost all they had left.
Jacqueline gasped. Leonotis tried to snatch the money back, but the woman had already covered it with her hands.
Zombiel hugged the bucket like a prize, happily stuffing a roasted insect into his mouth, smearing his chin with soot.
Low sighed, rubbing her temples.
"We're raising a fire-breathing menace. Fantastic."