Her cold gaze passed across the crowd, and it landed on him. A single look, contempt so casual it could have been a tick. No dramatic sneer, no elaborate disgust. Just that tiny, dismissive flick… as if he were a stain on her dress. The sting dug into him harder than the punch from Vurok.
He wanted to say something. He wanted to spit back a line that would twist her head. He wanted to rip off her flawless face like a mask and show what she really was. But before he could do or say anything, she turned and left.
Leaving him standing there confused, "what the heck was that?"
Then as if some deeper memory fragments clicked in, and he remembered who she was?
She was Selune. The literal moon of Osari and Chief Tharun's daughter.
The "White Swan."
The one even elders whispered about with that weird mix of respect and caution.
The girl blessed by the shamans at birth.
The tribe's so-called "future."
Their pride.
Their untouchable treasure and whatever title they slapped on her.
A flood of specific memories washed over him, of course not his own, but belonging to the body he now inhabited.
Going through the memories, "…God, you sad bastard," he muttered and couldn't help shaking his head, as for what they were…well, in simple terms, the previous Sol had been…simply pathetic. As one of the most handsome men in the village, he didn't have any shortage of suiters, but he had only been infatuated with her.
He had been the toad gazing up at the white swan, worshipping the ground she walked on. And that look she just gave him? It wasn't new. It was the same look she had given him three years ago when he had foolishly tried to offer her a polished river stone….a token of affection. She hadn't even rejected him verbally. She had simply walked around him, careful not to let her furs brush against his skin, as if he carried a plague.
"Great," Sol muttered, rubbing his temples. "Not only am I weak, but I'm also the village stalker. No wonder she looked at me like I was fresh dung."
He shook his head, forcibly dispelling the lingering emotions of the previous owner. Shame wasn't useful. Anger was better, but right now, hunger was the strongest of all.
By now, the atmosphere in the tribe had shifted from chaotic excitement to organized festivity. The massive carcass was already being dismantled.
Skilled butchers were slicing through the thick hide…mostly older women with arms like knotted wood and men who had retired from the hunt but knew the anatomy of a beast better than their own wives.
They didn't hack mindlessly. They worked with surgical precision using tools of chipped obsidian and sharpened bone.
Sol watched in fascination as two men climbed onto the ribcage.
One grunted."Push harder, Leko!"
"I AM pushing!"
They jammed wedges into the sternum.
With a wet, tearing sound that made the crowd shiver in anticipation, the thick hide was peeled back like a heavy rug, exposing steaming layers of dark red muscle and thick slabs of yellow fat. The heat radiating from the open body was visible, rising in faint misty columns against the cooling evening air.
Nothing was wasted. Not even a single drop.
Younger women moved in a coordinated rhythm, shoving large clay pots under the severance points to catch the thick, dark blood before it could hit the dust. It would be boiled into a soup or mixed with meal for the warriors. Others grabbed the spilled intestines, dragging the glistening, gray ropes…yards long…toward the river to be emptied and washed for casings.
Then came the cracking of bones. Men with heavy stone mallets smashed the massive thigh bones, splitting them open to reveal the rich, gelatinous marrow inside…a delicacy reserved for the elders and pregnant women.
The smell of raw iron was replaced by the mouth-watering scent of fresh meat as they cut open the beast in different parts, just by looking at it he couldn't help gulp, how long had it been since he last had the meat.
He watched as the best cuts…the liver, the heart, and the tenderloin…were carried ceremoniously toward the Chief's elevated platform. The hunters received large, bone-in slabs, laughing as they tore into the remaining flesh, grease running down their chins. The elders and the women were given the next shares…decent cuts of flank and shoulder.
But as the meat was distributed down the line, the portions grew smaller and the quality dropped. By the time it was the turn of those living on the outer edge, the dregs of the tribe….there was little left but tough neck meat and a few more chunks.
Sol watched it with a tight jaw, his chest buzzing like someone had kicked a hive inside his ribs.
People around him, the other outcasts, tried to make peace with their lot, murmuring soft platitudes to comfort themselves. "That's how it's always been." "We need the hunters strong. They protect us." "Don't complain, at least we get something. Better than starving."
Sol hated this defeatist shit. It was the mantra of the weak, the lullaby they sang to themselves to accept their place in the dirt.
He waited in line, but every time he stepped forward, he was deliberately stalled. "Wait," the distributor would grunt, waving a family past him. "Not yet." He was pushed to the very last, forced to watch the pile dwindle until the fires were dying down and the celebration was quieting. Even though anger simmered in his gut, he endured it, his face a mask of stone.
Suddenly, the murmuring around him changed. People stepped back, their voices dropping to fearful whispers. Sol looked up from the dust, and that's when he saw them.
Vurok and his lackeys were standing right in front of the remaining meat pile, acting as if they were the ones who had brought the beast down single-handedly. Vurok seemed completely fine from the punch Sol had landed earlier; in fact, he looked energized by spite. He was scanning the thinning crowd, eyes hunting, until they locked onto Sol.
A grin spread across his face. A real greasy one. The kind that said, "I'm going to enjoy this."
"Well, here comes the trouble," Sol muttered helplessly, but he didn't flinch. He folded his arms and stared right back.