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He fell to his knees as they shoved him inside the tent—mainly because they poked the backs of them, drawing blood—and Eavus winced and cursed at the same time as they looped his hands around a post and retied him, this time yanking his ankles as well. He should have run when he had the chance. The dirt was cold, and he felt exposed, tied like he was the measure of a road. He was right about the tent poles. They were femurs, held together by leather thongs. Eavus’ gut sank.

The source of the crying became evident, too. Eavus wasn’t the only captive in this strange collection—there were a few people from different tribes, judging by the different patterns on sashes or clothes—and one body in the corner that was dressed in an Aleterian tunic. Eavus almost called out, but stopped so quickly he choked on his own tongue. The man’s head wasn’t drooped in sleep. It had been so bashed in that his face wasn’t recognizable. He was dead. Why they’d left him here, Eavus couldn’t be sure, but he swallowed hard at the idea that maybe it was because they hadn’t yet had the chance to boil him.

The crying was coming from a child, maybe a year old, whose mother was so beaten she couldn’t quiet him. Her fingers fluttered, over and over, but the baby just sat in the dirt, wailing. One of the Sculpae gave the mother a hard kick to the ribs, but she barely even moved when he did it, except for natural force. Eavus felt sick. His ears rang with the wailing—the kid really was annoyingly loud—but the Sculpae with the wolf on his belly—it was a wolf, its hairy ears pointing towards the man’s nipples—crouched in front of the toddler and jiggled the claws on his necklace. The child stilled briefly, hiccupping, and the Sculpae man almost smiled. Then the child remembered himself, screwed up his face again, and screamed right in the man’s face. If they’d been words, they would’ve sounded like Caerdeneii.

The Sculpae slapped the child so hard his head snapped.

Eavus thrashed as the Sculpae stood, the infant fallen to a still lump, but the man only shot him a look and then Eavus winced against another sharp pain, the spear entering his side as casually as poking at a fire. The Sculpae left. The new wound sang and throbbed. Blood warmed the side of his tunic, then cold and pain. That fear crawled deep into his belly, curling itself into a ball.

What kind of monsters were these people?

The mother moaned and made an attempt to crawl towards her child, but the boy was beyond the edge of Eavus’ vision. She probably wouldn't last the night. Was the child dead, too? A hit like that? But at the fresh sound of whimpering, a wash of relief came over Eavus. It felt stupid, to care that a Caerdeneii baby was still alive, when the Sculpae could come back for him at any moment. But it felt like a scrap of hope. And maybe that was something.

The Sculpae hadn’t bothered leaving torches. Eavus’ eyes adjusted to the dim blue of moonlight filtering under the edge and through the slit in the opening. The child eventually went quiet—unconscious or asleep, Eavus couldn’t be sure—and the mother, too. What did the Sculpae want with them all? He hadn’t heard of Sculpae keeping slaves, but he’d never heard of them ransoming people, either, and the casual injuries they’d inflicted on every captive here seemed to betray either goal. The sour stench of wound rot was too evident. A short stack of Aleterian breastplates sat next to the dead soldier, and Eavus' skin crawled. How many had they killed, and what had they done with the bodies? Did they simply torture for sport? Maybe the rumors of cannibalism were true. Maybe everyone in this tent was simply being saved for the next meal.

No. No. Eavus jerked inadvertently, and then more wildly. Shocks radiated up his limbs, something outside clawing at his throat. He couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t—He had to get out. He heaved, pulled, the rough fibers tearing at his skin. He was drowning, choking on his own terror. A woman tied to her own post in the corner was staring. She didn’t move or comment, and Eavus felt more and more foolish as he flopped, useless fish on dry land. He cursed, and then, suddenly, stilled. Movement. Something scuffed outside. His heart was pounding. He wanted to start screaming, except he couldn’t breathe. The staring woman heard it, too. She cocked her head towards the back of the tent, but then the slit at the front opened instead, flooding them with faint light from the distant fire.

It was the girl, the thin girl that had inspected him earlier. Somehow, in the darkness, she looked even more familiar, especially when she crouched in front of him, letting the opening flap shut with a ripple that sounded like rain on leaves.

Eavus took a sharp inhale.

He knew her. It was the girl the deserter Taerus had held captive—the girl Revni had freed.

His mind reeled. She had been Sculpae? And how had she ended up here? He almost believed in Revni’s interventionist gods for a moment—that this girl, from weeks ago, should be facing him again. Her hands dangled between her knees. Her eyes traveled over his face, then his stretched-out body, lingering uncomfortably on the sticky blood at his waist, his bare legs. She reached a hand to the small of her back, drawing a knife from its sheath. His mouth had gone too dry to even swallow, much less speak.

She shifted forward, and he flinched. She didn’t react at all, not even a twitch of enjoyment in her lips. She simply started cutting at his ropes.

Eavus’ entire body went slack with relief and his eyes went embarrassingly hot. He held as still as he could while she worked, the scrape scrape scrape of knife on rope pounding so loudly in his ears that he was sure someone would burst it at any moment. The tent had gone as silent as if they were in the presence of the emperor, everyone afraid and in awe of what might happen next. The woman in the corner—the one who had been staring—made a motion and a murmur, the barest suggestion of holding up her own hands, but the girl whipped an angry expression in her direction and the woman slumped back. When Eavus’ wrists snapped free, the Sculpae girl warily sat back on her heels. Eavus let his hands drop to the earth.

Outside, the rise and fall of voices had grown more boisterous. It sounded, of all things, like a party. Maybe it was. Maybe the Sculpae were celebrating. Eavus had thought of them as monsters in the dark for so long that the idea they could feel joy set the world on a tilt. Especially while this girl was still watching him with the knife poised ready. Was she waiting to see what he would do next? Was she looking for an excuse to kill him? Slowly, he raised his hands in a gesture of peace. Or was it surrender? Maybe they were the same thing.

She didn’t move, so Eavus carefully worked his way towards his feet, keeping his eyes on her. His gaze flicked away momentarily while he picked at the knot at his ankles—he’d tightened it with all his struggling—but in that brief glance, he heard a heavy, squelching clunk, and the woman in the corner reared and scrambled from the entrance.

The tent opening smacked open, the sound a muffled whip, a long-handled ax slamming into the dirt as the thin girl rolled out of its way. She sliced at the attacker’s ankles, but as the figure at the front collapsed, the new arrival whirled the handle of her weapon and pinned the Sculpae, her knees on the thin girl’s chest and wrist, the ax handle choking her under the chin.

Revni.

Eavus’ relief was matched by a surprising fury. What was she thinking, following him to a Sculpae camp?! She could have been killed. She should have escaped while she had the chance.

The Sculpae bucked and Eavus leapt, clamping a strong hand over her mouth, just as Revni clearly recognized her. Revni blinked. The Sculpae turned her furious eyes upward. He deserved that glare, he supposed, and he hated how hard her lips and teeth felt beneath his grip. But he put his other hand to Revni’s arm, stilling her as silently as he could.

Revni met his eyes. He couldn’t explain the feeling that flowed through him, that shadowed brow wearing his own helmet. All his anger dissipated at the sight. She was alive. She was here. That Revni had come for him—that was a bet he would have lost.

Except deep down, maybe it wasn’t one he would have taken after all.

Eavus carefully pried the knife from the thin Sculpae’s hands, but then he pressed Revni off her. Revni removed herself warily but willingly, the girl jumping to her feet but staying silent. She wasn’t giving them away. Eavus used the knife to finish removing the ropes at his ankles, his mind racing. He was free, and Revni was here, but they still had to somehow escape. Just how far was the Sculpae girl willing to help them?

The woman tied in the corner raised her wrists. Revni made a small move towards her, but the Sculpae girl stepped between them. He could feel rage rolling thick off Revni, but—thank Viduus—for once she didn’t press it. They had themselves to think about.

They all three held in a moment of indecision. The Sculpae pointed to Revni’s ax, then clapped a hand. Revni’s lips tightened to a thin line. The girl tilted her chin towards the opening, then clapped her hand again. Was it a trap? She was clearly telling them to go, but only if they left the weapon. Eavus silently flipped the short knife he’d taken tight to his wrist, and braced himself. Maybe she wouldn’t remember he had it. Were they just going to stroll on out, like two more guests at the feast? Bye, all, thanks for the invite! Revni hesitated, muscles in her jaw jumping, then set the ax down. He knew what it cost her. The Sculpae flicked another nod at the exit, and Revni made to leave, Eavus a step behind⁠—

Something was on his ankle. For a moment, he thought he had perhaps missed a rope, that he was still tied to the post. But no, it was fingers, weak fingers, thin and cold. Eavus had a sudden memory of that old cook from Caea’s kitchens, when she’d caught the sweating sickness. She’d clasped his forearm when he came to check on her. It had held all the pleas and strength of someone clutching onto the world, and all the futility of someone who knew they had lost.

Eavus looked down. The mother was awake, one eye swollen shut but the other staring at him with haunting, begging urgency. Her breathing was rattled. She let go of his ankle, gestured weakly to the tiny body curled into her chest, and then tried to push it in Eavus’ direction. The boy must have made his way to her warmth. He could barely see him. He was nothing but a lump of soft whimpers.

They couldn’t take a child with them. Eavus didn’t even know how he and Revni were going to make it out of here, much less an infant. Eavus bent to extract the woman, or explain, but found himself prying the child off the floor. They couldn’t take him with them. Even in the dim darkness, Eavus could see the swelling on his face, the crust of dried blood. He barely stirred, only flopped in that baby boneless way and then readjusted himself onto Eavus’ chest, his tiny tug at Eavus’ breastplate barely the pull of a fly. They couldn’t take a child with them. A Caerdeneii child, no less. How could they fight their way out of a band of Sculpae carrying a child? Eavus put a hand to the back of the baby’s head—soft and overgrown, a shaggy pony—and looked at Revni.

She nodded. Sa. He could practically hear it.