Page 120 of Somno Slave

Then—a shout, sharp, panicked.

He freezes.

The axe slips from his hands, embedding itself crookedly in the wood. He’s already moving before it lands, sprinting toward the hut, boots slipping on damp earth.

I follow instinctively.

My eyes adjust slowly.

An old man lies on the floor.

His father.

I know it before I understand how. It’s in the way Deogal moves. He drops to his knees too fast, his hand hovering over the body, suspended there for a second too long as if afraid to break something already broken.

My pulse climbs so fast it makes me lightheaded.

“I’m fine,” the old man snaps before Deogal can say anything, though his voice trembles. “Just—lost my footing.”

The lie sits badly in the air.

He tries to push himself up. His arm gives almost immediately.

Deogal is there before he can fall. He catches him hard, hands gripping, muscles straining as he hauls him upright with more force than care.

He doesn’t let go straight away. His hands stay where they are, holding him in place as his gaze moves over his father’s face.

“You’re not fine,” he says, and it’s quieter now. “You’re shaking.”

“I said I’m fine.” The old man jerks slightly in his grip, irritation flaring to cover the weakness. “Move.”

It’s not the first time. I can feel that much. It’s in the rhythm of it—the way the words fall into place too easily, like they’ve been said before, worn down and reshaped over time. Resistance on one side, worry on the other. Neither of them shifting.

Deogal hesitates just for a second, then he lets go. His hands don’t drop far. They hover there instead, fingers twitching, close enough to catch him again if he so much as sways.

The old man coughs. It drags up from somewhere deep, wet and thick, the sound tearing through the quiet in a way that makes my stomach turn before I can stop it.

Deogal goes still.

“You can’t take the cart to market,” he says tightly. “You’re not well.”

The old man doesn’t answer straight away. He lifts his head slowly instead, eyes finding Deogal’s, sharpening as they settle there. Whatever weakness sat in him a second ago folds in on itself, buried under something harder.

“We need the coin.”

Deogal’s jaw tightens. “I’ll take it.”

The offer comes fast, like he’s been waiting for the opening.

“No.” It’s just as quick.

“Father, it’s too far now,” Deogal pushes forward. His face twists into something unfamiliar. “The market’s moved again. You won’t make the journey.”

His father shoves past him, holding the silence like he never heard him speak. He’s unsteady on his feet, hand brushing the walls for support, but he plays it off smoothly, as though he’s had plenty of practice.

“I’ve made it every year since before you were born.”

Deogal follows him, shoulders rigid, arms out in protest. “Things are different now.”