The dirt pressed cold and unyielding against Veythor’s cheek, every grain biting into his skin beneath the weight of Emata’s foot. The pressure wasn’t just physical it was meant to humiliate, to grind him into the earth like something lesser than human.
Above him, the old woman’s cackling voice cut through the night, a jagged sound that mingled with the tribesfolk’s laughter. Together, their voices formed a chorus of mockery, a cruel hymn carried by the crackling flames of the bonfire.
Shimi flinched at every note of it, her slender body trembling as though each laugh were a blade pressed against her throat. Raika’s face, in contrast, was blank, drained of all color, hollow like a man already halfway buried in the earth. His spirit seemed fractured, teetering on the edge of collapse.
Veythor, however, lay still. The crimson glint in his narrowed eyes flickered from beneath his messy strands of hair. His breathing remained calm, steady, almost predatory like a beast biding its time, waiting for the right instant to strike.
The tribe’s leader... Emata, he noted silently. Wrinkled skin, thinning hair, but her authority is absolute. They obey her without hesitation. Even Darius trembles when she speaks.
Every wrinkle of her expression, every word, every reaction he carved into the corners of his mind. Knowledge was survival. Knowledge was power.
The crunch of footsteps returned, steady and deliberate. Darius approached with the whip in hand, the braided leather trailing against the dirt. The tribesfolk stirred with anticipation, their laughter sharpening into bloodthirsty grins, eyes gleaming with savage hunger.
Emata pressed her heel harder against Veythor’s head, forcing his face deeper into the soil. The earth scraped against his lips, filling his mouth with grit.
"Now then, boy," she hissed, her voice brittle and sharp, like dry leaves scraping against stone. "If silence is your only answer... let’s see how much flesh it costs you."
The whip cracked once in the air sharp, vicious. It split the silence with a hiss like a serpent striking, echoing through the clearing. Shimi whimpered. Raika swallowed hard, his throat bobbing nervously as if choking back bile.
And Veythor? He gritted his teeth, jaw tight, then let a smirk tug at the corner of his lips despite the dirt pressing against him.
Pain, humiliation, death threats... none of it matters. I’ve endured far worse. The longer I live, the sharper the knife I’ll drive into all of you.
He mumbled to himself, the glow of his crimson eyes barely visible beneath the veil of his messy bangs.
Emata leaned in, her cruel grin widening. "What happened, boy? Where’s your scream? I don’t hear anything. Or is it that you’re deaf and dumb?" Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on N0veI.Fiɾe.net
Her laughter tore through the clearing again, shrill and mocking. She pressed her heel harder into his skull until his neck strained.
The tribesfolk joined in, their cruel laughter rising into the night like wolves howling at the moon. Only Dasha and Darius remained silent. Darius and Dasha simply stood watching, their eyes glimmering with something unreadable.
"Answer me, boy!" Emata’s voice cracked with irritation, sharp enough to cut stone. "What’s your identity? What’s your status? Where did you three come from?"
Still, Veythor gave nothing. His lips remained sealed, his eyes calm, defiant. Shimi turned her face away, unable to watch the humiliation any longer. Her small shoulders trembled violently, but she dared not speak.
"Tch... still not answering, huh?" Emata sneered, the wrinkles of her face twisting deeper as her smirk widened. "I guess going easy on you was wrong. Child or not you’re still an outsider."
A low sound slipped from Veythor’s throat. At first it was only a chuckle, faint and almost inaudible. But then it grew.
Do they really think I’ll get scared of all this?
His chest shook with amusement. The more he thought of their pathetic attempts to break him, the harder it became to hold back. At last, the dam broke. A deep, devilish laughter burst from his lips, rolling through the firelit clearing like distant thunder.
The tribesfolk froze. Their own laughter faltered, confusion rippling across their faces. Those who had been jeering just moments ago now whispered nervously to one another. The dancers halted mid-step, staring with wide eyes at the boy who refused to bow. A few of the children whimpered, hiding behind their parents’ legs as if Veythor himself were the monster here.
Only Dasha smirked knowingly, her dark eyes alight with thrill. She leaned forward slightly, as though savoring the moment. Emata, however, narrowed her gaze, the weight of her foot still grinding against his skull.
"What’s so funny, boy?" she demanded, voice taut with suspicion.
At last, Veythor spoke. His voice was low, venomous, carrying the weight of defiance.
"Are you the chief of this tribe?"
He stopped laughing then, letting only a smirk linger on his lips.
Emata’s face remained carefully unreadable. "Yes. I am. You may address me as Lady Emata."
Veythor chuckled softly, almost playfully. "Hmm. So, Lady Emata... tell me, what will you do if I answer your questions?"
The words struck like a stone in still water. Every head in the clearing turned toward him, the firelight casting sharp shadows across their faces. Even the dancers froze, waiting. Emata’s pupils shrank, a rare crack in her hardened mask of control.
"You tell me what you’ll do," Veythor said, his voice steady, eyes burning. "Let’s say I answered:
’Kill you and eat your flesh.’ As far as I remember, children are the most delicious."
She answered, the air thickened, silence stretching for a heartbeat. Then Emata’s mouth twitched. She laughed, sudden and sharp, as though expecting Veythor to finally falter. The tribesfolk followed, their laughter surging again like a crashing wave.
But then they saw him. Veythor was laughing too soft, cool, and utterly untroubled. Not with them. Not against them. Simply mocking them all.
Their laughter died in their throats, collapsing into silence.
"You’re a strange child," Emata said at last, bafflement creeping into her tone. "I have never seen anyone like you. How... how can someone so small be unmoved by being hit or threatened? You don’t even flinch. Instead, you laugh with us."
At last, she lifted her foot, releasing him. Veythor raised his head, unblinking, crimson eyes fixed firmly on hers.
"Well, well," she continued, her amusement tainted now with something else... curiosity. "Not everyone is the same."
Her gaze flicked to Darius. "Darius—bring another metal bar. Hang him upside down. Set a fire beneath him. Let’s give him thirty minutes. If he doesn’t spit what we want, we’ll see what becomes of that stubbornness."
A smirk stretched across her withered lips as the command left her tongue. The tribesfolk murmured among themselves, ripples of anticipation cutting through the tense silence. Darius’ hands trembled only slightly as he moved to obey, his shadow stretching long across the firelight.