Chapter 34: Under pressure
The night dragged on, stretched thin beneath the weight of the full moon. Its pale light spilled across the camp, washing the earth in silver and shadow. Smoke from the dying bonfire coiled upward, carrying the stench of charred flesh and blood, clinging heavy in the lungs like an omen that refused to leave.
The tribe had begun to scatter, their laughter fading into murmurs as sleep tugged them away. Yet the echoes lingered, ghostly as though the soil itself remembered their jeers. Only the chains creaked in the silence, swaying faintly in the night breeze, whispering of pain and defiance.
Veythor hung suspended in that silence, his body a dark silhouette against the wavering glow of embers. Upside down, he was neither child nor prisoner, but something caught between predator and prey, the kind of creature that belonged to no category the tribe had words for.
Some tribesfolk drifted to their huts, while others lingered in clusters, whispering. Dasha waved them off with a casual flick of her hand. Shimi trembled before Darius, her body rigid, eyes downcast. Veythor, spinning slowly on the chain, turned his sweat-slick face toward them, a faint headache gnawing at his skull. Below him, the fire gnawed at the air, its heat clawing upward, almost biting his skin.
"Dasha. Stop the fire," Darius’s voice cracked the quiet.
"Okay," she said lightly, tilting her head. With a sway in her step, she disappeared into a hut and returned carrying a wooden bucket brimming with water. She stopped before Veythor, who stared at her through half-lidded eyes, crimson glint buried under exhaustion.
I’m getting a bad feeling about this. The thought flickered across his mind like a blade’s reflection.
Dasha’s lips curled, the grin at first playful, then twisting into a light chuckle. Darius turned his head, uneasy. She began to dance a strange, mocking sway of hips and shoulders not for beauty but to insult. Yet Veythor felt nothing. He smirked instead, the smirk of someone untouched by the spectacle. She stopped mid-step.
"Like the dance?" she asked.
Veythor’s laughter rang out, sharp and cutting. "It was one of the most beautifully stupid dances I’ve ever seen."
Her teeth clenched behind a forced smile. "Oh? Is that so?"
Before he could respond, she flung the bucket’s water at him. The cold struck his face, running down his body in thin streams. His jet-black hair, once singed by heat, now clung wet to his skin. The fire below hissed and died with a shuddering sigh.
"You like it now?" Dasha asked, mouth twitching.
Veythor chuckled, low and animal, like a caged beast who’d just been given a small reprieve. "Thank you."
Two simple words, yet they made her eyes narrow, her brows knit, her teeth grind.
"Are you serious? I just threw cold water at you, and you’re saying thank you? Why?"
Veythor’s laughter stilled. "Because I was dizzy from the fire. The water helped."
A second later, the bucket came flying at his face. He jerked his body to the side, twisting with the chain’s momentum, and the bucket whistled past.
"Whoa, careful," he said with a laugh. "You could’ve hurt someone."
"Ughhhh!" she almost screamed, then punched herself lightly in the forehead.
Why am I the one being ridiculed by him... when I’m supposed to be ridiculing him?
Darius’s voice snapped like a cord being plucked. "Start talking."
Shimi blinked, the world reassembling from the blur; for a second everything outside Veythor’s face dissolved. He filled her vision like a sun she couldn’t look away from.
"We—" she began, throat tight, but Veythor cut in before she could finish.
"Stop," he said, voice flat and controlled. "I’ll tell you. She was unconscious for a while. She didn’t see much."
Darius, Dasha, and Shimi swung their heads toward him. Confusion flared across Shimi’s features. I was only out for a short time, she thought, bewildered. Why is he acting like this? What’s his angle?
Darius fixed Veythor with a hard stare. "Is that so? Very well, then. Boy.... tell us everything you know."
His eyes flicked back to Shimi. "If this boy lies, if he invents a single detail, remember he dies. Now, by my hand."
Dasha’s smile sharpened. "Don’t lie to him, you little liar. Spit it out."
Veythor’s mind moved like a surgeon’s hands, lining up truths and falsities into an edible shape. He needed a mixture part truth, part bait.
"We are escaped slaves," he said simply.
Shock split the assembled faces. Dasha’s hand flew to her mouth; a strangled, incredulous sound escaped her. "Wait—what? You three are escaped slaves?"
"Dasha, shut up," Darius barked, barely keeping his composure. His fingers trembled.
"How did you escape? And why isn’t your master chasing you?" he demanded.
"Maybe he’s dead," Veythor answered, voice casual, expression flat as stone.
"Dead?" Darius snapped, incredulous. "How do you know that?"
"That man isn’t chasing us. I’m sure of it," Veythor replied.
Darius’s gaze bore into him. "Oh? And your master’s name?"
Veythor’s eyes met his for a long, unblinking beat. "Diharan Bulz."
The name landed like a thrown stone. Behind Darius’s mask the color drained; his hand shook with something that was almost fury and disbelief. He could not believe it.
"You dare lie to me? You expect me to believe children like you escaped from Diharam Bulz?" he spat. "No way. No way in hell."
Veythor watched him, utterly unmoved. Darius’s reaction was predictable.... useful even.
"Believe it or not," Veythor said, cold, "I told you the truth."
"Enough!" Darius barked, voice cracking with commanded rage. "Dasha fetch a sword. I’ll execute this brat now. Forget the sacrifices."
Veythor swung gently on the chain above the fire as if enjoying the spectacle.
"I’m telling—"
Darius cut him off, snapping the whip away from his shoulder.
"Shut up. I can see through your lies."
Veythor’s smile widened into something that looked almost kind.
"It’s not your eyes that are blind," he said, quiet and sharp, "it’s your heart."