# Chapter 38
Markelo entered Zaemon's room.
The heavy door opened inward with its usual scrape, though more carefully than before, like he was trying not to spill what he carried.
A metal tray rested in one hand.
Zaemon straightened slightly against the wall as the smell reached him first.
Fresh bread. Thick broth.
Markelo noticed the reaction immediately.
"Smells better than before, doesn't it?"
Zaemon's eyes moved from the tray to Markelo's face.
"You people have something other than punishment rations?"
That earned the faintest shift at the corner of Zaemon's mouth.
Markelo crossed the room and set the tray down within reach before stepping back toward the wall instead of leaving immediately.
Intentional.
A conversation.
Zaemon noticed the distance first. Far enough to react if necessary. Close enough to observe comfortably.
The bowl held actual broth instead of boiled sludge. Bits of pale meat floated near the surface beside chopped roots and herbs. Roasted vegetables glistened beneath pepper and rendered fat. Cleaner meat too, not the bitter crawler strips from earlier.
He was fairly certain this meat was not from the creature's mother.
Not generosity. A psychological tactic.
The behavior reminded him of interrogation breakdown videos he had watched during livestream dives.
Zaemon picked up the spoon.
"You want something," he said.
Markelo folded his arms loosely.
"You already know we want something."
"Yes. There's no such thing as free food."
A quiet snort escaped Markelo before he could stop it.
"Speak like a grown man."
"Well, I spent most of my time around grown men."
Zaemon took a careful sip.
Hot. Salty. Actual seasoning this time.
His shoulders loosened almost invisibly as warmth spread through his stomach.
Markelo caught that.
"You really do eat more than grown men," he said. "Drevic thinks you're just a stomach with limbs attached."
"I burn through energy faster than most people."
"Because of your alchemical birth?"
Zaemon tore off a large piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth instead of answering.
Markelo waited. One eyebrow twitched slightly.
The silence settled naturally.
"Maybe," Zaemon said at last. "My physician never found anything wrong, and Mother liked that I ate heartily."
Markelo's brow lifted faintly.
"Is the second serving enough?"
"It's inefficient," Zaemon said, taking a bite of roasted root.
Another near-smile.
Markelo leaned one shoulder against the stone wall.
"You're calmer than I expected. Most kids in your position would be screaming, crying, begging. Or breaking something."
Zaemon dipped bread into the broth.
"Panic changes very little."
"That so?"
"If you intended to kill me, conditions would be worse. If you intended torture, you wouldn't bother improving the food. And if I'm important enough to keep alive, damaging me too heavily reduces my value."
He took another bite of meat.
"You don't damage goods you're trying to sell, use, or trade."
Markelo watched him quietly for several seconds afterward.
Not offended.
Amused.
Possibly reassessing.
"You really are strange," he muttered.
"I've been called worse."
"I imagine you have."
The room settled briefly into the sound of spoon against metal bowl.
Markelo's gaze drifted once toward the ventilation gap before returning.
"You adapted quickly."
Zaemon swallowed.
"You haven't rooted yourselves deeply enough here yet."
That made Markelo still.
Not visibly tense. Just still.
Zaemon continued before the silence hardened.
"The paths outside are maintained, but not aged enough for permanence. The group rotates movement too carefully. Too many people are sleeping lightly."
His spoon scraped softly against the bowl.
"This place feels temporary."
Markelo studied him openly now.
"You seem to hear quite a lot through a closed door."
"Guards talk when they get bored."
A short laugh escaped Markelo this time. Genuine.
"You know," he said, "most children your age cry first and think later."
"Most children my age aren't kidnapped by cultists."
"Fair point."
Zaemon took another spoonful.
The warmth helped more than he wanted to admit.
"You're establishing a presence here," he said. "Or trying to."
Markelo did not answer immediately.
Interesting.
Not denial.
Not confirmation.
Controlled silence.
Zaemon noticed the fingers on Markelo's injured side flex once against his sleeve before stilling again.
"The operation at the clearing wasn't your ideal outcome," Zaemon continued. "Something forced acceleration."
Markelo's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And what exactly makes you think that?"
Zaemon lifted one shoulder.
"If things had gone according to plan, I doubt I'd still be sitting in a half-prepared hideout eating negotiation soup."
That earned another quiet laugh.
"Negotiation soup?"
"The seasoning improved too much for this to be coincidence."
"Well, if you say so."
Markelo shook his head slowly.
"There are moments I forget you're a child."
Zaemon tore another piece of bread apart between his fingers.
"There are moments I wish I could."
The words landed differently from the earlier exchanges.
Quieter.
Markelo noticed it.
So did Zaemon.
The silence afterward stretched longer this time.
Not hostile.
Thoughtful.
Then Zaemon broke it himself.
"I still want reading material."
"No."
"At least something written."
"No."
"Maps?"
"Definitely no."
Zaemon clicked his tongue softly.
"You people are deeply committed to making captivity boring."
"You're a prisoner, not a scholar."
"I can be both."
Markelo pushed himself off the wall.
"That mouth of yours will cause more trouble than you think."
"You don't have the position to decide that. Every extra day I stay here makes your situation worse. My father does not reduce pressure. He accumulates it."
The statement came out casually.
Too casually.
Both were still for half a second.
Markelo's eyes sharpened for a second.
There.
A reminder.
Not dangerous now.
Potentially dangerous later.
Zaemon watched the calculation happen in real time behind the man's eyes.
Interesting.
Markelo picked up the empty water container near the wall.
"You'll get more food later," he said. "Don't start trying to starve yourself into leverage."
"I'm offended you think I'd do such a thing."
"That answer concerns me more than it should."
Markelo moved toward the door, then paused with one hand against the metal.
Without turning back, he spoke again.
"You know, understanding the situation usually makes prisoners easier to manage."
Zaemon lowered the spoon slowly.
"And?"
Markelo glanced back over one shoulder.
"With you, I still can't decide."
Then he stepped out into the corridor.
The door scraped shut behind him completely.
Silence settled across the room once more.
Zaemon stared down into the broth.
A thin layer of oil drifted slowly across the surface in fractured circles.
The smell still carried traces of the earlier meat beneath the stronger seasoning.
His grip tightened briefly around the spoon before relaxing again.
______
The forest canopy shifted above Corin as wind moved through the upper branches.
He crouched along a thick limb overlooking the slope below while three goblins waited several body lengths behind him among the leaves and bark.
The forest smelled occupied now.
Too many layered scents remained tangled through the undergrowth. He smelled the human smoke mixed with the odor of iron, sweat, and urine. Crushed grass from marching boots. And beneath all of it lingered the foul rot-smell left behind by the robed humans.
Rot people.
Corin's nose wrinkled faintly.
The smell reminded him of wet caves filled with spoiled meat and stagnant water left too long in heat. It clung to trees after they passed through an area. Even their magic carried the same scent underneath it.
His jaw tightened.
Below the branch line, one of the smaller goblins shifted nervously while clutching a chipped spear made from scavenged metal and hardened wood.
Corin looked down at him.
The goblin froze immediately.
Corin lifted one hand slowly and pointed two fingers toward the western slope.
Search there.
The goblin bobbed his head quickly and disappeared into the undergrowth below without a sound beyond faint leaf movement.
Another goblin started moving toward the eastern side automatically.
Corin stopped him with a sharp grab against the back of his neck.
The smaller goblin stiffened.
Corin pointed downward through the trees.
Fresh tracks crossed the mud near the lower path. Straight spacing. Heavy boots.
Shiny humans.
The goblin's ears flattened immediately.
Good.
At least this one understood danger.
Corin released him.
The goblin moved away carefully after that, avoiding the lower path entirely.
Corin remained crouched on the branch while his yellow eyes tracked movement through the forest below with the patience he had learned from watching humans.
The territory no longer belonged to the forest alone.
That irritated him more than Burca's death.
Burca had been simple. Loud. Violent. Easy to guide once hunger and pride pointed in the right direction. Corin's plan to claim Burca's territory had nearly failed because of the rot people.
Because of them came the shiny humans.
Now patrol paths cut through sections of the forest that had remained untouched for seasons. Scouts moved along the outer roads regularly. More smoke drifted from distant human structures each night.
Pressure.
The forest was shrinking.
Not physically.
Operationally.
Corin understood the difference instinctively.
He moved silently across the branch and dropped lower through the canopy.
Below him, another goblin emerged from behind a fallen trunk dragging a half-rotten animal corpse by one leg.
Corin's eyes narrowed.
The goblin immediately released the corpse.
Good.
Food later. Search first.
The goblin lowered itself submissively.
Corin moved past it without slowing.
The rot people had crossed through this section recently. Broken fern stems still leaked moisture where boots had crushed them. One tree carried fresh knife scoring near the bark where someone had marked direction in haste.
Fast movement.
Leaving.
Corin crouched near the mark and pressed clawed fingers lightly against the cut bark.
Not old.
The rot people were abandoning territory.
That meant fear.
Or pressure.
Possibly both.
Interesting.
A faint grin spread slowly across Corin's face.
Sharp teeth showed beneath wet green skin.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, a distant horn echoed briefly through the trees.
Human signal.
Not close.
But closer than before.
The nearby goblins stiffened almost immediately after hearing it.
Corin did not.
His eyes shifted toward the direction of the sound while his fingers tapped once against the tree bark beside him.
Measured.
Thinking.
The shiny humans moved too carefully for Burca's methods to work again.
Noisy raids failed.
Large gatherings failed.
Predictable territory defense failed.
The humans cut movement apart piece by piece until creatures starved or scattered.
Corin had watched them long enough to understand that now.
A few streaks of fading light still remained above the canopy as night crept through the forest.
His gaze drifted southwest through the forest.
Toward where the rot people had fled.
The forest around him no longer felt like something permanent.
That realization settled quietly inside him.
Not fear but calculation.
Above him, branches shifted again beneath the evening wind.
Corin rose slowly from his crouch.
Then he moved through the canopy without another sound, leaving the other goblins scrambling behind him to keep pace.
_____
The forest floor shifted softly beneath boots as the combined search group moved through the darkening undergrowth.
Branches brushed against cloaks and armor while damp leaves cracked quietly beneath controlled steps. The formation had stretched wider during the last hour. Smaller scout units had already separated from the main body to widen the search range through the surrounding forest.
Davan led one unit farther east through the lower ridges.
Valen had taken another group west toward the outer trails.
The remaining force continued forward beneath the command of both Nina and Herald.
Near the center of the formation, Tina adjusted the grip on her spear while glancing ahead toward the restrained prisoner stumbling between two soldiers.
Xeth.
The second-in-command of the ambush force looked barely conscious now.
His movements dragged unevenly through the mud while iron restraints bound both wrists behind his back. Fresh bruising covered one side of his face beneath streaks of dried blood. The drug running through his system kept his eyes unfocused, though his lips still twitched occasionally like he was trying to mutter through half-formed thoughts.
Tina looked away from him briefly and toward the older woman walking beside her.
Sifnia of Tusk Bastion moved through the forest with practiced steadiness despite the uneven ground. The older warrior carried no visible tension in her shoulders, though her eyes continuously scanned the surrounding trees while they walked.
Tina lowered her voice slightly.
"I still don't understand how Lady Nina realized he was the second-in-command so quickly."
Sifnia glanced sideways at her.
"First time seeing power of spirit used properly?"
Tina hesitated before nodding once.
Sifnia stepped over a fallen branch before continuing.
"The moment Herald's people captured him, he reached for the item hidden under his coat."
Tina frowned.
"I didn't notice that."
"You weren't supposed to." A faint snort escaped Sifnia. "The man was trained."
Ahead of them, Xeth stumbled briefly before one of the soldiers jerked him upright again.
Sifnia continued speaking calmly.
"If he had activated the item before Lady Nina interfered, the captives nearby would've lost their minds long enough for him to slip free during the chaos."
Tina's grip tightened slightly around her spear.
"Lost their minds?"
Sifnia nodded once.
"Yes. Lady Nina sensed the attempt immediately through spirit perception. She reinforced herself and disrupted the activation before the pulse completed."
Tina glanced toward Nina farther ahead near Herald.
The noblewoman moved through the forest with steady focus, her red hair shifting softly against the brush while several scouts rotated around the forward perimeter.
Tina looked back toward Sifnia.
"How would that even work?"
"The item triggers the ordinary runes carved into cult members." Sifnia brushed aside a hanging branch. "Not many are capable of tolerating the pain. Most carry ordinary control markings. Simple triggers. Pain. Fear. Madness."
Tina's expression tightened faintly.
"Runes can be carved in the bodies?"
"Yes, but very few runes are compatible with the body, and most bodies reject them. It's extremely dangerous and requires tremendous skill to carve them. Otherwise, the slim chance of surviving the process disappears."
"And the stronger runes?"
Sifnia's eyes hardened slightly.
"The special ones carry traces of their lord's power inside the carving itself. Only grandmasters can carve them. Anyone else turns the process into suicide. "
A faint chill moved through Tina's stomach.
"Their lord?"
"The most trusted cultists usually receive deeper markings." Sifnia's voice remained matter-of-fact. "More dangerous. Harder to suppress."
Tina glanced toward Xeth again.
Mud clung to the lower half of his robes now. The pentacle-shaped mark pressed faintly beneath the torn fabric across his chest where Herald's men had forced the containment seal earlier.
She lowered her voice further.
"The thing Sir Herald used on him earlier... the seal."
"The containment brand?" Sifnia nodded once. "Royal issue. Officially called a cult-rune suppressor."
Tina blinked.
"Royal?"
"Every noble house keeps some variation of one." Sifnia adjusted the axe resting across her back. "Religious groups make their own and are equal to royal made. Markets sell cheaper versions. Mostly to suppress normal cult runes before activation."
"And if the lord-power runes activate first?"
"Then you pray a priest or Or someone monstrous enough to stop it nearby."
The answer came too quickly to be comforting.
Tina's eyes lingered briefly on Xeth again.
Even drugged, the man still twitched occasionally whenever someone brushed too close against the restraints around his arms.
Unsettling.
Not because he looked dangerous now.
Because he looked prepared.
Prepared to destroy himself and everyone nearby if necessary.
The forest around them grew darker as the last strips of evening light faded above the canopy.
Then a horn signal echoed through the trees.
Short.
Sharp.
Everyone in the formation stopped immediately.
Herald's head lifted first.
Another horn answered somewhere farther west. Different direction.
Scout signal.
Movement.
Sifnia's hand dropped toward the axe handle across her back.
Ahead of the group, Nina's eyes narrowed slightly toward the dark forest beyond the trees while a few fading strips of light still lingered above the canopy.