"Dasai!"
Telo ducked through the tent flap where Dem sat with Huntmaster Dern and the white-painted shaman. He gave a quick bow. "Shaman. Huntmaster."
"Is there a telling tonight?" Dem asked, looking up.
Telo shook his head. "Too many in a row spoils the appetite. Even stories need rest."
Dem smiled faintly. "Did you keep a journal during your Massat?"
Telo tapped his temple. "All up here. Locked away tight."
The shaman snorted softly, then pretended she hadn't by turning back to her sewing.
Dem studied his friend a moment longer. "You seem restless. What's on your mind?"
Telo straightened, throat clearing. "I want to be a sentry. You'll need people you can trust."
Dem nodded once. "I was going to ask—but I wasn't sure the clan chiefs had told their people yet."
Telo's grin returned. "So I'm the first?"
"Yes."
"Good. And not to overstep—or spoil my next telling—but I spent my fifth month of Massat in a Beastmaster prison. During that time, I talked a lot with a Beastmaster scout named Turlu."
That earned him the shaman's full attention, and even the Huntmaster leaned forward slightly.
"Did he share war stories?" Dem asked.
Telo shook his head. "Nothing like that. Mostly logistics and hierarchy. He never stopped talking—liked the sound of his own voice more than the sound of breathing."
"Must've been irritating," Dem said dryly, making the shaman chuckle under her breath.
"Quite," Telo agreed. "Anyway, this Sentry force of yours—forty-five or so? You'll need a second in command, and probably five leaders beneath him."
"A good idea," Huntmaster Dern said, nodding. "What did the Beastmasters call those ranks?"
"According to Turlu," Telo replied, "the second in command of a force that size is called a Chief, and the leaders beneath him are Subchiefs. Each subchief commands a group called an odun—usually numbered, like First Odun, Second Odun, and so on."
Dem nodded thoughtfully, filing it away. Then he paused, eyes shifting northward. "Do you hear that?"
Telo frowned. "Hear what?"
"Music," Dem said. "String instrument, hand drum, and… flute?"
The Huntmaster stood, listening, but shook his head. "Nothing. You sure?"
Dem nodded. "Positive."
"Could be the travelers," Dern said finally. "I'll alert the guards. If so, they'll want space to set up." He strode out of the tent, the shaman following close behind.
"Travelers?" Dem echoed.
Telo's grin spread. "You've never seen them? They're wandering performers—entertainers. Travel in groups of twenty or thirty, visiting towns and gatherings. They sing, dance, tell stories. Some even perform plays."
As the faint pulse of music reached them, Telo was already on his feet. Dem grabbed his spear and followed as his friend bolted north, weaving through camp paths and clusters of people. Curious faces turned to watch them go.
They reached the outer edge of the Gathering, where dozens had already gathered, drawn by the sound.
Three covered wagons rolled into view, drawn by long-haired horses and flanked by half a dozen riders. The travelers wore an explosion of color—scarlets, greens, purples, golds—none of it matching, yet somehow radiant in the afternoon light.
Men and women alike wore high black boots that reached the knee; the men's trousers were tucked neatly inside, while the women's pleated skirts spun like petals when they moved, rising with every turn as if caught in a constant dance.
The air around them shimmered with music and laughter—the sound carried on the wind, an open an invitation to anyone listening.
A young woman danced in the center of the clearing—spinning, leaping, twisting with such fluid control it could've made an assassin blush. Her hair was black as midnight, a cascade of curls that brushed her waist. Her skin was the color of coffee kissed by sun, and her eyes were dark pools that hinted at stories better left untold.
She was small—no taller than Dem—but carried herself with a confidence that made her seem larger than life. Around her, the other travelers formed a circle, tambourines and flutes and hand drums rising into a whirlwind of sound. The rhythm was wild, unrestrained, and infectious. Within minutes, nearly the entire Gathering had arrived, leaving the camps half-empty.
The dancer ended in a flourish, her skirt spinning high enough to flash a glimpse of slim, tanned legs before settling around her like a flower folding its petals. Silence rippled through the crowd. Then she spoke.
"I bring greetings to the Gathering from my people—the Travelers." Her voice carried easily, rich with a musical lilt. "We would like to perform for you, and perhaps stay a few days, if that is agreeable."
The rolled r's, the warm accent, the confidence—she had the crowd eating from her hand.
Chief Taigon approached alongside Revan, both smiling broadly. "Welcome, Travelers," Taigon said. "We'll prepare an area near the river for your camp."
"Thank you," the woman said, bowing gracefully. Her curls spilled forward like ink. "I am Elsie. We shall rest and prepare for tonight's performance. Feel free to visit—Travelers adore new company and lively conversation."
Dem watched silently, eyes sharper than most. During her dance, he'd noticed something faint shimmer around her—the air itself bending, subtle but deliberate. A charm. It reminded him of street tricks used to beguile marks, but this was different—refined, instinctive.
"So lovely…" Telo murmured beside him, his tone halfway between awe and surrender.
Dem nudged him. "Bite your tongue."
"What? You disagree?" Telo frowned, genuinely confused.
Dem rolled his eyes. "No. I mean literally—bite your tongue, Sentry Chief."
Telo obeyed before he realized. The moment his teeth met flesh, the colors around them dimmed, the sounds stopped echoing, and his thoughts snapped back into focus. "What—? Shit. What was that?"
"A natural charm, I think." Dem's voice was low, amused. "Harmless. Just enough to lower your guard."
Telo whistled, shaking his head. Then, realization struck. "Wait—you called me Sentry Chief. Does that mean—?"
Dem nodded. "Who better than my dosu?"
Telo grinned wide, but his triumph faltered as Elsie drifted toward them.
"Greetings, tribals." Her tone flowed like silk. "May I have an introduction?"
Before he could think, Telo found himself speaking. "I'm Telomere, and this is Dem."
Elsie's smile widened as she took his hand, her skin warm, her scent faintly of jasmine. "A pleasure, Telomere. Dem." She released him, moving effortlessly through the crowd to greet others, laughter trailing behind her.
Dem snorted, reaching into his pocket and tossing Telo his own coin pouch.
Telo blinked, patting his belt—his pouch was gone. He looked from it to Dem. "Did you just pickpocket me?"
Dem shook his head, grinning. "Nope. She did. I pickpocketed her."
Elsie paused mid-step, smoothing her skirt over her hips. Her hand brushed her waist—and froze. Slowly, her gaze swept the crowd, searching.
Dem's grin widened, just slightly.
Their eyes met for an instant.
The street rat shrugged.
The traveler smiled—slow, smoldering—her dark eyes promising things better left unspoken.
Dem chuckled under his breath, letting the charm wash over him and fall away. "Better than most," he murmured. "But not good enough."
Elsie blinked, surprise flickering across her features—but when she looked again, he was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Telo caught up, still red-faced. "How did you do that?"
Dem's expression grew serious as they wove through the throng. "On the street, every breath is a gift. Every person's a mark or a threat. Friends are rare, enemies plentiful. Before I came here, I didn't know what it felt like to be safe." His gaze drifted toward the tents at the edge of the camp. "One eye always open, weapon in hand, always facing the door. It becomes habit."
Telo nodded, sobered. He'd been robbed, chased, and even imprisoned during his Massat—but hearing Dem say it made the cost of survival sound heavier. "I'll keep my guard up."
Dem's grin returned, light but genuine. "Good enough. We'll visit the travelers later—you can practice."