The journey to the Dead Vines Estate took two days, just as Namer had said. The landscape changed, leaving behind the opulence of the capital and the mix of open grass and small forests and entering a region of wild hills where denser forests tried to swallow the old stone roads.
Jory talked incessantly. He had a joke for every pothole in the road, but between the laughs, the truth of his life leaked out like blood from a poorly stitched wound. "My father used to say, 'Jory, the world is your oyster,'" the servant said, kicking his feet as he drove the oxen. "Turns out, I'm allergic to shellfish and the world is actually a rock. He was a fisherman, you know? Drowned in a puddle. Well, the ocean. But to the ocean, he was just a puddle-sized problem."
Around midday, the wagon lurched violently and came to a grinding halt. The left rear wheel had sunk deep into a hidden mud pit, tilting the cage precariously. The Saber-Stalker let out a low, unhappy rumble, shifting its weight. "Perfect," Jory sighed, looking at the wheel buried up to the axle. "Just perfect. This is exactly what my horoscope warned me about. 'Avoid heavy lifting and large cats,' it said."
"We push," Cory said, jumping down into the mud.
"We?" Jory looked at his boots. "These are my second-best boots. I stole them from a dead guard, and I have a sentimental attachment to them."
"Push push, Jory!" Cory insisted
For the next hour, they struggled. Cory pushed from the back, his muscles straining, while Jory pulled the oxen and shouted "encouraging" words that were mostly complaints about his back, his pay, and the unfairness of gravity.
"If I die here," Jory panted, his face red as he shoved against the wood, "tell the loan sharks... tell them the money is buried... under the... Moon Temple."
"Is it?" Ámmon grunted, as he helped Cory do the heavy duty, mud splattered across his face.
"No!" Jory laughed breathlessly. "But it'll keep them busy digging for a month."
With a final, agonizing heave, the wheel popped free with a wet sucking sound. Jory collapsed into the grass, gasping for air.
"I hate nature," Jory wheezed, staring at the canopy above. "Give me a dark alley and a mug of swill any day. At least the mud there doesn't try to eat your cart."
Ámmon leaned against the cage, wiping sweat from his brow, almost forgetting the beast lying inside. A little bit of fear clung to his gut, but when he looked up, the beast inside was still sitting in the same position, watching him with a look of almost-approval. Are you there? Ámmon thought, casting his mind toward the iron bars, hoping for that familiar echo, that vibration in his bones. But the silence was absolute.
"Come on," Jory said, a tired smile touching his lips as he wiped mud from his cheek. "We're almost there."
The Dead Vines Estate was a misnomer. The vines that strangled the gray stone skeleton of the fortress weren't dead; they were violently, beautifully alive. Thick, emerald creepers, as wide as a man's arm, choked the high turrets and squeezed the masonry in a lush, possessive embrace, blooming with purple flowers that seemed to mock the ruin beneath them. The main house loomed in the center, its west wing partially collapsed, looking like a skull with a caved-in temple wearing a crown of thorns and flowers. But Ámmon didn't look at the house. He didn't look at the vines.
He was staring, paralyzed, at the ground to the left of the hill.
Jory noticed the boy's almost hypnotic fascination. "That's the Baraboo River," he explained, following Ámmon's gaze. "It runs through most of the land. Here, it's thin and shy, but up north... it is mighty and huge."
To a boy born in the Badlands, where water was measured in drops and paid for almost always in blood, the sight was incomprehensible. It wasn't a well. It wasn't a hidden spring. It was a chaotic, roaring road of liquid silver, hemorrhaging endlessly toward the horizon. It terrified him more than the beast in the cage. It was too much life in one place. It gets bigger than this? he thought, astonished.
"Close your mouth, sand-boy," Jory muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Before you catch a fly. It's just water. Wet, cold, and terrible for your boots."
They pulled into the central courtyard, a vast expanse of cracked cobblestones where weeds fought for dominance. But it was the structure built against the eastern rise that drew the eye.
It was a stark contrast to the decay around it: a massive, permanent enclosure that utilized the very bones of the earth. Two sides of the pen were formed by the sheer, vertical cliff face of the jagged hill, a natural fortress of granite that no claw could scale. The rest was enclosed by thick, black iron bars, freshly forged and reinforced with steel crossbeams, creating a semi-circle of confinement. The space inside was immense, large enough for a cavalry unit to maneuver, or for a predator to run. But what made Ámmon's breath catch was the sound of trickling water. A small diversion channel had been cut from the nearby river, feeding a crystal-clear stream that ran directly through the enclosure, pooling in a natural stone basin before flowing out again. It was a prison, yes. But with the fresh water, the natural rock, and the vast space, it was a prison built for a king.
"Cory, bring the wagon around!" Jory ordered, his voice echoing off the silent walls.
But as soon as Cory got near the wagon, the beast inside the cage stiffened. A low growl, vibrating with the promise of violence, emanated from behind the iron bars. Cory froze, the whip trembling in his hand.
"Leave it to me," Ámmon intervened, his voice calm, cutting through the fear that was beginning to saturate the air.
He walked to the back of the wagon, ignoring Jory's whispered protests. Ámmon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reaching for that dark place in his mind, the invisible thread Narmer had taught him to pull. He didn't force his will; he simply opened the cage door and suddenly, Ámmon was no longer seeing the darkness of his eyelids. The image shifted, distorted and tinted in monochrome shades of gray. He saw his own face, a skinny boy standing by the iron latch. And beyond the boy, he saw prey. He witnessed the panic radiating from Cory, Jory, and the other Grasslanders like heat waves.
"Did he open the door?" he heard Jory whisper, but the hearing was different, sharper, agonizingly acute. The sound scratched against his consciousness.
The beast rose and the reaction was absolute chaos. Cory screamed, dropping the whip and sprinting toward the manor with a speed that defied his bulk. Jory and the others didn't wait to see what happened; they tripped over one another, a mass of flailing limbs scrambling to reach the heavy doors of the main house, screaming as if the devil himself were snapping at their heels. Amidst the stampede, Ámmon saw a miniature blur sprinting toward Jory. The traitorous jerboa had evidently decided that the man with the bread crumbs was a far safer bet than the boy standing in front of an uncaged monster.
Go, Ámmon commanded mentally, slamming a barrier against the bloodlust. Refuge. Water. Stone. Peace.
Ámmon remained motionless. He felt a gust of hot, musky wind pass him, so close it ruffled his hair. He felt the weight of the beast leave the wood of the wagon. A sudden urge to enter the enclosure pulled at Ámmon. He opened his eyes, his vision returning to the normal spectrum of color, and turned to the wagon. It was empty. He walked to the sliding gate of the great enclosure and pushed it until it shut with a metallic clang, turning the winch to lock it. Only then did he look through the black bars.
The beast was already inside, far from the grate. It had ignored the vastness of the space and gone straight to the small artificial stream. The Saber-Stalker lay on the stone bank, lapping up the water with long, thirsty strokes. Sated, the creature rolled onto its side and began to lick its wounds, its rough tongue tending to itself, completely ignoring the outside world.
When Ámmon returned to the manor, the silence was absolute. He found Jory, Cory, and the others huddled in the main hall, pale and gasping for breath.
As soon as they saw Ámmon enter, unharmed and calm, the atmosphere shifted. Cory straightened up quickly and offered a clumsy bow. One of the helpers ran to pull out a chair for him. Jory cleared his throat, looking at Ámmon with a mixture of terror and religious awe. Suddenly, a small blur of fur shot across the floorboards. Khepri scrambled up Ámmon's leg and tunic with desperate speed, settling back onto his perch on the boy's shoulder. The little jerboa nuzzled against Ámmon's neck, emanating pure happiness and relief to be reunited with his faithful caretaker, conveniently forgetting he had abandoned him for the bread-man just moments ago.
"Master Ámmon," Jory said, his voice cracking. "Can I... can I get you something, sir? Wine? Water? Cory's boots?"
"Stop that," Ámmon said, frowning. The sudden servility made his skin itch more than the desert sand. "I am no one's master. And I am not a noble."
"You the cat... wit your head… the cage open, and you not eaten," Cory murmured, still looking at the floor, his massive hands trembling.
"But you are grass-eatrers," Ámmon asked, looking from Cory to Jory, genuine confusion wrinkling his brow. "You were born in these forests. Can't you all do this? Namer said it was your nature to connect with the grass Physis."
Jory let out a sharp, hysterical laugh, running a hand through his soot-stained hair. "Connect? Yes. Command? Absolutely not. There is a vast difference between listening to the wind and screaming at a hurricane to sit down, Master Ámmon."
The servant stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting to the enclosure as if the beast could overhear them. "Look, most of us... we just feel the hum," Jory explained, his hands moving animatedly. "I can tell if a horse is spooked before it kicks, or if a dog is happy to see me. It's a feeling. A mood. My aunt? She's good. She can call hedgehogs to her garden to eat slugs. That is the extent of it for common folk. It's a whisper, a polite request to simple creatures."
"But surely some can do more?" Ámmon pressed, needing to understand the anomaly of his own blood.
"There are levels, yes," Jory conceded. "The High Priests, the gifted ones... they can 'talk' to a hawk, maybe trade images with a kitten. But always with respect, always a negotiation." He pointed a shaking finger toward the massive iron enclosure. "But that? That is an apex predator. It is pure rage, hunger, and instinct. To step into the mind of a killing machine and guide it to heel?" Jory shook his head slowly, looking at Ámmon as if he were a different species entirely. "I've never seen a living soul do that. I've only heard nursery rhymes about it.
Ámmon looked at his own hands, the lingering vibration of the beast's heartbeat still echoing in his palms. He felt heavy, burdened by something he didn't understand. The awe in Jory's eyes wasn't comforting; it was isolating. He needed to work.
"Get up," Ámmon ordered, breaking the tension and walking over to the supply crates they had abandoned in the entryway during their desperate flight. He picked up a heavy box. "And help me unpack this. We sleep here tonight, and this place is filthy."
They hesitated, shocked to see Ámmon carrying weight, but soon rushed to help. The night was spent cleaning one of the ground-floor rooms and setting up camp, with Ámmon working side by side with the men, ignoring every attempt they made to treat him like royalty.
The next morning brought a gray, damp light filtering through the broken windows. Ámmon was woken by a light kick to his boot. "Wake up, Your Highness of the Sand," Jory whispered. "If we are to receive Master Namer , you need to scrub the road crust off your body. And I found the perfect spot."
They left the manor while the mist still clung to the ground like a shroud. Jory led him to a bend in the Baraboo River that ran just outside the beast's enclosure, where the current slowed into a secluded backwater protected by the drooping branches of weeping willows.
"Bath time," Jory announced, his fingers already working the laces of his tunic. "Running water. Nature's greatest invention. Second only to ale, and perhaps the wheel if you're feeling ambitious."
Ámmon hesitated on the bank. In the desert, bathing was a ritual of damp cloths and precious oils to preserve the skin's moisture. To submerge one's entire body in drinkable liquid felt like a blasphemy, and to him, the river wasn't a bath; it was a drowning waiting to happen.
Jory didn't share his reservations, he stripped off his tunic and trousers, tossing them onto a mossy rock. Splash.
The Grasslander disappeared beneath the dark, swirling surface. The water swallowed him whole. For a few terrifying seconds, the river was smooth again, indifferent. Ámmon's heart hammered against his ribs. He's gone, the water took him. Until the surface broke with a loud gasp.
Jory resurfaced like a sputtering otter, shaking his wet hair and sending droplets flying. "What is that face for?" Jory laughed, wiping his eyes. "Don't tell me you've never seen a splash before?" He sniffed the air theatrically. "With all due respect, Little Highness, the way you smell suggests you and water have been sworn enemies since birth."
Ámmon scowled but approached the edge. He stepped into the shallows, and the shock was electric. It wasn't just cold; it was alive, pulling at his ankles with a gentle, voracious force. "It's freezing!" Ámmon exclaimed, his teeth chattering as the water lapped against his waist.
"It wakes the soul!" Jory shouted, leaning back and floating effortlessly."
Ámmon hesitated once more, he peeled off the tunic Namer had given him, shivering as the morning air bit his skin and stepped further in.
Jory gaze drifted lower, with a crooked, unwanted smile curving his lips as Ámmon lunged forward, plunging into the deeper water. "What is it?" Ámmon asked, approaching Jory.
"Nothing" Jory said, finally averting his eyes to the trees, though the sly smile remained etched on his face. "Just... cultural differences, I suppose"
Ámmon found that his fear of the water was replaced by a strange, childish wonder. The water wasn't just cold; it was buoyant. He splashed a handful against his chest, watching the droplets sparkle, and for the first time in weeks, a genuine laugh escaped him.
They scrubbed in silence for a moment. Ámmon found that his fear of the water was replaced by a strange, childish wonder. The water wasn't just cold; it was buoyant. He splashed a handful against his chest, watching the droplets sparkle, and for the first time in weeks, a genuine laugh escaped him.
"See?" Jory grinned, splashing back. "The river doesn't bite. Unless there are crocodiles, but I'm eighty percent sure we ate the last one." Emboldened, Jory decided it was time for a lesson. "Come deeper," he urged, wading out until the water lapped at his chest. "You don't just stand in it, sand-boy. You ride it. It's called swimming."
Ámmon hesitated, but the allure of the cool weightlessness was strong. He took a step. Then another. The riverbed was slippery, moss-covered stones shifting under his feet.
"Just kick your legs," Jory instructed, floating on his back like a piece of driftwood. "Like a frog. Or a drunk man falling off a dock. It's mostly instinct."
Ámmon took one more step, and the bottom vanished. The drop-off was sudden. The water went from his waist to over his head in a heartbeat. The sensation was immediate, primal terror. The "buoyancy" Jory spoke of felt like a lack of gravity, a void opening up beneath him. There was no ground, no stability, only the suffocating embrace of the fluid darkness.
Ámmon thrashed, his limbs flailing against a force he couldn't hit or hold. He inhaled water, coughing and sputtering as he clawed his way back toward the shallows, his eyes wide with the panic of a creature born to solid earth. He didn't stop until his knees scraped against the gravel of the bank, coughing up river water and glaring at the stream as if it had personally betrayed him.
"Maybe... maybe we start with wading," Jory said, suppressing a laugh as he stood up. "You swim with all the grace of a drunk cat."
Ámmon wiped the hair from his eyes, ready to retort, when a sound cut through the morning mist like a knife. It was the low, mournful blast of a heavy war horn, followed by the sharp, metallic call of trumpets. The sound come from the woods; it echoed from the main gate of the estate.
Jory froze mid-step. He looked toward the manor, his skin paling beneath the water.
"The master is here," Jory whispered.