A new smell, savory and rich, cut through the market.
Bahari, the grizzled fisherman, stood over a sputtering fire, flipping small, perfectly fried pieces of tilapia in a cast-iron pan. The skin was a crisp, golden-brown, and the aroma alone was enough to make Leonotis's stomach ache with hunger.
Bahari glanced up as the kids approached. His weathered face was unreadable. He'd watched their brief exchange with the woman. His gaze lingered on Zombiel. The boy's pale skin was now faintly flushed with a semblance of life, but his eyes still held that unsettling flicker of orange light. He was happily nibbling on a cricket he had roasted on his fingertip.
"Leaving then?" Bahari grunted, his voice as rough as his hands.
"Yes, sir," Leonotis said politely, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "We just need to get some rations for the road."
Bahari's eyes narrowed—not at Leonotis, but at Zombiel. He watched the boy chew his insect, a flicker of something in his own gaze that was not fear, but a weary, bitter pity. He knew the stories of Njiru's "specimens." Children who vanished from the neighboring villages, their bodies later found working in graveyards or fields, pale and empty. The necromancer always claims they died from some creature or demon, but he knew better.
Without a word, Bahari speared four pieces of fried tilapia from the pan and wrapped them in a large, clean banana leaf. He placed the package on the counter and pushed it toward the kids, his gaze still fixed on Zombiel.
"For the road," he said gruffly. "Seems like you'll need more than… what is that, a roasted beetle?"
Zombiel, catching a stray whiff of the fish, tilted his head.
"Tilapia," he said, the word sounding foreign but fascinating on his tongue. He had no words to describe the aroma, but the feeling it stirred was a new and pleasant warmth inside him. He looked at the fish, then back at his cricket, and an internal debate seemed to be raging within him.
"It's a gift, Zombiel," Leonotis said softly, a wave of gratitude washing over him as he took the offered food.
Bahari turned to a basket beside his stall, pulling out three perfectly round bread rolls and a handful of apples. He placed them on the counter, his demeanor softening just a fraction.
"How many coins you got left?"
"Only five coppers," Leonotis said.
"Then that'll be five coppers," he said, his voice still rough but no longer hostile. "It's a long way to the Capital. Best not to go hungry. And a little advice for you young travelers: The road can be just as dangerous as the creatures you run from."
Leonotis paid him, his heart full. He looked at Bahari, then at Zombiel, who had just tried his first piece of fried tilapia, his eyes wide with a pure, unadulterated joy that could only come from a child experiencing a taste for the very first time.
With a final nod to the gruff fisherman, the kids continued on their way. The villagers lined the road as they walked, faces tight with fear. No goodbyes, no waves. Only silence, as though watching the condemned march to their fate. Leonotis's earlier cheer drained away, replaced by a cold knot of shame.
At the moss-covered gate, the village elder stepped into their path. The same cautious man from yesterday, but now his face was heavy with something graver.
"Child," he said, beckoning Leonotis closer, his voice low. "You have a good heart. We thank you… in part… for sparing the boy from that cursed grave. But listen well: the undead are not just wandering shades. They are tools. Assets. And the man who forges them never forgets when one is stolen."
Leonotis's throat tightened.
"We didn't steal him. We freed him."
The elder's eyes narrowed.
"You misunderstand. Njiru does not see freedom. Only property. Months ago, another family thought as you do. They hid their son after Njiru claimed him. The man came at night, and not alone. The house was ash by morning, and the family's screams carried to the far fields."
A chill crawled down Leonotis's spine.
"He will not rush. He will not send legions. He will come for you when you are weakest, and he will take back what is his." The elder's gaze flicked to Zombiel, who was happily chewing a charred grasshopper, utterly unaware. "And he will punish you for daring to interfere."
The elder stepped aside. The gates creaked open.
A voice, dry and melodic as the rustle of old leaves, cut through the stillness.
"Leaving so soon?"
Widow Eno stood just outside the village gate, her violet robes blending with the deepening shadows. Her raven was a silent, watchful presence on her shoulder. Her sharp eyes fixed on Zombiel.
"Just… heading out," Leonotis said, a little too quickly. He felt a familiar nervousness in the presence of the eccentric old woman.
Widow Eno nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving the boy.
"Yes. The road calls. I know a thing or two about journeys." She glided toward them, her movements graceful and unnervingly quiet. "Tell me, boy," she said, her voice softer than before, "how does it feel to have a spirit to call your own?"
Zombiel, who had been absently watching a beetle crawl across a stone, turned his attention to her. The faint orange light in his eyes flickered, a new curiosity mingling with his usual blankness.
"It is… warm," he said, his voice a low hum. "And there is a buzzing." He touched his stomach. "It asks for food."
A predatory amusement crossed Widow Eno's face.
"The buzzing is the hunger of life. A thing you have not had for some time." She reached out a long, bony hand, her silver rings catching the fading light.
Leonotis tensed, ready to pull Zombiel back, but the old woman simply placed her hand on the boy's head.
The contact was not what Leonotis expected. There was no crackle of energy, no brilliant light. Just a moment of quiet, intense observation. Widow Eno's eyes seemed to peer into the very core of Zombiel's being, seeing not the boy, but the fiery salamander spirit now intertwined with his form. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her thin lips.
"The work is... solid," she murmured, a private thought spoken aloud. "The fire is well-contained."
"I've been thinking. There wasn't really any danger, was there?" asked Jacqueline. "It was just a test of some sort to make sure we were certain of what we were going to do."
Widow Eno laughed heartily.
"Oh my yes there was. He might have turned into a grotesque creature that spelled the doom for the village."
"Then why did you let us do it?!" Low asked.
"Does it really matter now?" said Leonotis, trying to calm Low and Jacqueline, "Everything turned out alright."
"Indeed it did. For now." Widow Eno said, smiling. "Children must be tested, or they never grow."
She withdrew her hand, and Zombiel blinked, looking at her with the innocent curiosity of a child.
Widow Eno turned her gaze to the others, a new warmth in her expression.
"The road ahead is long, and it is full of sharp edges. Be wary of those who offer easy answers. And be especially wary of those who claim to have none at all."
She gave them a final, knowing nod, a simple goodbye that felt like a powerful blessing. Then, with a swish of her robes, she turned and glided back toward the village, disappearing into the crowd as silently as she had arrived, her raven a black smudge against the darkening sky.
They passed through in silence, the sun sinking lower, shadows stretching long across the road.
Leonotis glanced at Zombiel, who gave him a childish smile, orange light flickering in his eyes. For a moment, it warmed Leonotis's heart. But the elder's and Widow Eno's words clung like chains.